


Proper Manners

by Jade56



Series: King William's Castle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Class Differences, First Time, Identity Issues, Light Bondage, M/M, Master/Servant, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-War, Religion, Royalty, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 40,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade56/pseuds/Jade56
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a charming—if somewhat eccentric—nobleman who often spends time with John, an apothecary’s son. When John is offered employment at King William’s castle, however, he fears he will have to say goodbye to Sherlock. But in the end, they might actually become closer than before.





	1. Chapter 1

The church bells tolled a slow, distinct six. It was evening, and only one man was inside, seated solemnly on the foremost pew. John, his head down and his hands clasped, was not a wealthy man, but he was a proud one, and it was a rare time in his life that he came to God in need. Murmuring the few prayers he remembered from childhood, John hoped that the words would bring order to his life, which had been torn by the dramatic conflicts of a three-year war and by the private turmoil of his family.

John had been born the son of an apothecary, learning all manner of practical medicine from the day he could walk. When the previous monarch had called for able-bodied volunteers to rise for battle, John dutifully rose, taking all that he had learned in his father’s shop with him. At the age of twenty-five, he stormed onto the battlefield with his fellow soldiers, taking every opportunity to drop to his knees at the side of an injured comrade with his various tonics and surgeon’s tools at the ready.

Upon the end of the war, he learned that his trouble was far from over. His father’s gambling habit had sent the family further into debt, and his sister was turning down the proposal of every man who tried, much to the irritation of their mother. His household was only a source of tension, not comfort.

It had become apparent to John that he could not rely on others. Others in this world took without giving. Even the lives he had saved on the battlefield—one of which he had pulled from the brink of death—had gone on without him.

There was a dull pain in his leg, a memento of the war. John knew that the wound had healed and there remained no actual cause for pain.

“John.” From beyond the imposing double-door, a voice called to him. “You’re early, again.”

Ceasing his murmuring abruptly at the sound of the familiar voice, John lifted his head and turned to see the other man. More disenchanted with the world than even John, this fellow never appeared for Sunday services, though he visited at the same odd hours John had chosen lately for using the chapel. John had come to appreciate his company, and in truth, this man was the only person who ever gave to John without taking, even if it was nothing more than the time of day or a sympathetic ear.

“Did you really intend to start your prayers without my astute commentary?” Sherlock asked, with a playful smile. A nobleman eccentric enough to spend his time among the lower rungs of society, the tall figure was nonetheless dressed in fine clothes and carried himself with an elegant bearing.

John smiled. His evening was complete with Sherlock present. “I thought it might be easier for God to hear me if you weren’t critiquing every word.”

“Of course, and He would be bored senseless by them. It’s in the presentation, John.” The nobleman took a seat next to John, his fingers steepled contemplatively together. “As God must listen to so much drivel, you would do well to try to catch His attention.”

John should have been insulted over the mockery of his religion, but no one had ever gifted him with this much lively attention. He could do naught but grin childishly. “How kind of you to worry for my prayers when you have so little faith in their purpose.”

“So I do not believe these things as you do,” Sherlock said dismissively. “That has hardly any bearing on what you believe. I respect your views.”

Hearing that sentiment, John had to fight a blush. The noble figure sitting next to him was a kind man. “Why do you come here, Mr. Holmes, if you do not believe in God?”

“I thought I had cured you of that irksome habit,” Sherlock muttered. “However reflective of poor taste it may be, my name is Sherlock, and you may call me as such.”

“Sorry, Sherlock.” It was easy for John to forget that Sherlock did not stand on his rank in their class-conscious society. Mindful etiquette toward those of a higher station was deeply ingrained in the apothecary’s son.

“That is better.” Sherlock adjusted the blue scarf around his neck, and visibly relaxed on the pew, though his posture, arms crossed and one leg over the other, still spoke of nobility. Sharp eyes turned to John’s own. “Does your family still give you trouble?” he asked, though his definitive tone seemed to know the answer already.

John noticed that Sherlock had not answered his question, but perhaps God was a sore subject for the other man. Embarrassed by the steady gaze upon him, John quietly answered Sherlock. “I’m afraid they do.”

“I am aware that is a matter of finances.”

That was true in all regards, John supposed, since gambling drew them into debt, and a fortuitous marriage would provide additional income. Though he had been seeing Sherlock here for months, John had never brought himself to admit his problems. “How did you know that?”

“I have known much about you for a long time. You regularly smell of medicine, despite not being ill, and as you cannot be much older than myself, you must be the son of an apothecary. In recent weeks you have taken to coming earlier than you had before to your personal services, and you leave at a more precise time, indicating that you have taken a second, night-time job. Judging from the newly formed callouses on those otherwise well-kept surgeon’s hands of yours, it is manual, repetitive labour. No number of candles would allow for tilling fields at night, so you are working for a craftsman or transporting goods.”

John wished Sherlock wasn’t so clever, since then the gentleman would not know how disadvantaged the peasant sitting next to him was. Trying to hide his humiliation at his unfortunate circumstances, he asked, with unnecessary derision, “Oh, you don’t know which one?”

“If you insist,” Sherlock said, and he stood up from his seat to kneel on the floor, touching the spot where John’s trousers met his shoes.

The sudden crumbling of privacy caught John off guard. “Sherlock?”

As if it were an entirely normal action, Sherlock lifted John’s foot and sniffed the dirty bottom of his shoe. “The dirt is not varied enough for a courier—you haven’t ventured further than a few blocks this past month.”

It was very wrong to let the gentleman sniff his shoes in this manner. “Um, Sherlock…”

Suddenly, Sherlock stood back up again. “Your arm, if you please.” He took hold of John’s right arm, which had been willingly if unenthusiastically offered. He lifted the plain sleeve up. Again, Sherlock sniffed, his nose almost touching John’s skin, the end of his scarf falling onto the shorter man’s lap.

This felt even more wrong, because Sherlock was so close. The gesture couldn’t have been intended to be an intimate one, but John’s inappropriate feelings rose to the surface regardless. “You, um, what are you…?”

“You washed your hands thoroughly, but you missed the area above your wrist. I can smell newly applied wood stain, and I see where it smudged.” Sherlock nodded at his conclusion. “You’re making furniture.”

“That was remarkable,” John mumbled, nerves electrified by the close proximity of the refined gentleman who was still holding on to his arm. Sherlock was always so intelligent and capable.

Sherlock smiled a little. “You flatter me. But you are over-working yourself. How long can you carry your family’s debts on your own two shoulders?”

John sighed. “What else am I supposed to do?”

Gently, Sherlock’s hand moved down to clasp John’s own. It was so blatantly tender that John could hardly breathe. “John, I am not a man of little means…”

“Oh, no.” Reluctant but steadfast, John pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s, ignoring the regret he felt when Sherlock frowned with disappointment. More than once, John had feared that Sherlock would offer him charity. “I don’t need your aid, I assure you.”

John couldn’t count on anyone else in his life, not even the enchanting man who sat next to him in church, who was so captivating under the waning evening light that fell through stained glass upon his graceful form. Sherlock now turned wistfully towards the glass. “There must be something I can do.”

Simply having a nice friend was more than John ever expected. “I’m grateful that you take the time to come by here, Sherlock,” he said, “especially since you aren’t religious.” It occurred to John as he spoke why Sherlock would bother sitting on this pew at the same time of the week as the forlorn peasant. “Do you visit just to keep me company?”

Ignoring the question posed to him by John again, Sherlock asked, “Who is the man you work nights for?”

John hoped he hadn’t offended the nobleman with the presumptuousness of his question. “Um, the man who owns the warehouse three blocks down. I wouldn’t call him a kind man, but he gives me an honest wage.”

“You let him help you,” there was a touch of something bitter in Sherlock’s voice, “and not me?”

John wondered if Sherlock was somehow jealous, though that couldn’t be possible. “I work for him, Sherlock. It’s different.”

“You could work for much better people.”

Was Sherlock offering to hire John, as a servant perhaps? John steeled himself against the idea; he could not be dependent on someone who was so close to his heart. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock gazed at him, seemingly knowing what John was thinking before the words were spoken aloud. “Inquire for better work,” he said at last, “that is all I am proposing.”

“Yeah, I suppose I could,” John responded, mostly to placate Sherlock. Average people such as John did not exactly have their choice of comfortable jobs.

“I am certain there is an avenue that you missed. An apothecary’s apprentice with the skills of a former soldier has a great deal to offer.” Sherlock wrapped his scarf tightly about himself. “For now, I know that it is nearly time for you to leave. Think on it, John.”

“Sure.” John couldn’t depend on Sherlock’s generosity, but the clever man had never lied to him. Maybe the apothecary’s son had more skills than he had previously thought. “Wait, Sherlock, I don’t think I told you I fought in the war?” The war ended two years ago, so he highly doubted that there was any telling smell of battle on him.

Before he left, Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and said simply, “You must have mentioned it at some time.” Once he left, the grand doors thudded loudly behind him, letting only a glimpse of the setting sun through for an instant.

John wished that Sherlock would stay with him for the rest of the day, that their respective roles in society did not keep them apart outside of God’s house. At the first thought of such a wish, however, John was compelled to swallow hard, for if he followed his treacherous, longing thoughts through to their end, God and society both would be appalled, and the former soldier did not need to give either any further cause to reject him.

John carried on with his night, to his shift in the furniture warehouse, and as he handled the cabinets and tables, he could not help remembering that Sherlock’s touch had been upon his shoe, his arm, his hand. Guilty thoughts to be sure, but somehow, they made the lonely night pass by more comfortably.

He was finished in the dreary hours that could have been morning or night, and though he was tired, he did not feel like sleeping. John went to a public house instead, one for the working folk that would be open for hours longer.

As soon as he entered the noisy place, he saw a familiar person leaning on the bar, talking to other people. The priest turned towards John, with a wide smile of recognition. “John, there you are. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Father Lestrade?” John had seen the priest in the tavern many times, offering friendly advice to the townsfolk, though usually at an earlier hour. “This is awfully late for you, isn’t it?”

“Since you’re working nights now, I figured I should stay up to see you. I’m supposed to pass on a job offer to you.”

With no small amount of frustration, John brought his hand to his forehead. Leave it to Sherlock to try to influence John through one of the only people he respected. “Did Sherlock put you up to this?”

“Sherlock? You’ve mentioned his name before. Can’t say I’ve ever met the bloke. Whoever he is, mind reminding him that services are on Sunday?” Lestrade chuckled. “No, my request comes from the castle.”

John wasn’t sure what to make of that. “King Holloway’s castle?” King William Holloway was their monarch, who had been ruling for two years.

“That’s the one.” Though Father Lestrade often journeyed into town to speak with the common folk like a friar would, John knew that the priest was also the castle chaplain, who administered to the spiritual needs of the nobles running their country. “The monarch himself requested you.”

Interested, and suspicious, John leaned on the bar next to the priest. “Why in the world would he do that? His Highness shouldn’t know that I exist.”

“He didn’t ask for you specifically,” Lestrade said, “but you match the description of the type he needs very well. His Highness would like a personal servant, one who can defend him with arms, and care for him in sickness if necessary. You were a soldier, and you still work for your father, don’t you?”

“Yeah, and since I have that other job, I really can’t take a third one on.”

“Actually, I’ve suggested your name to King Holloway, since you fit what he was looking for so well, and I explained that your family is going through hard times right now. He made an offer that you have to hear.”

“What did he say, Father?”

“He’s willing to take care of all your family’s debts. Your folks would be taken care of, and your sister wouldn’t have to worry about marriage.”

John couldn’t believe that offer. Full of doubt, he said, “All the debts? That’s more than a lifetime of labour.”

“Well, John, there’s more. It might be justified, since his Highness has some strange demands for this position. You’d have to stay in the castle all the time, and do everything he says.”

“For how long?” John asked.

“Until you’re dismissed,” Father Lestrade replied.

“… Oh.” At least it sounded a lot less like charity now. “That’s like selling myself into slavery!”

“It’s only a servant position, John. Of course, you don’t have to take the offer. But I know you’d like to find honest work to help your family, so I thought I would mention it to you. There are worse places to work in than a nice castle. His Highness has other staff waiting on him, so I doubt your duties would be strenuous. He just wants someone he can always depend on.”

John shifted on his feet uncertainly. “You think this is a good idea?”

The priest smiled, apparently glad to be the bearer of what could only be good news. “It sounds like the opportunity you have been waiting for. Perhaps, John, God has heard your prayers.”

A part of John felt uneasy, relying on help from Father Lestrade, but it was a sincere job offer and not some gift to inevitably be taken away. If there was something John could trust, it was the fruits of his own labour. “I’ll think on it, Father.”

Lestrade nodded. “Of course. Think it over, that’s the proper thing to do. Let me know after services this week.”

John agreed, already knowing that he was going to take the job.

He would never let his family lose their house and shop. But he needed to make sure that he wasn’t failing Sherlock. It was ridiculous to think that the nobleman’s day might have ever been brightened by John’s appearance the way that John’s had been uplifted by Sherlock’s reassuring presence, but Sherlock had said that John was his friend. John owed it to Sherlock to tell him that they wouldn’t be seeing each other anymore.

John’s insides ached at that thought. If he were to be kept in the castle at all times, he wouldn’t be visiting the church, not the one where he saw Sherlock. John would no longer sit on a plain pew and hear the magnificent voice of his friend. Maybe Sherlock would visit the castle? Clearly Sherlock was a nobleman of importance. It was possible that Sherlock occasionally had business with the monarch or one of his advisors.

It was also possible that John would never see him again.

~~

John spent whatever free time he had, in the days he had before services, asking around in various public houses and shops for the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes. To his surprise, he found nobody who had ever heard of the man. He cleaned himself up as well as he could to inquire in the more posh establishments, but even there the name was unfamiliar.

Sherlock was apparently a more reclusive individual than John had guessed. He despaired that he could not find Sherlock before he was sent away, but he thought of one small way to reach his friend. He wrote a letter, one that was probably too sentimental for Sherlock’s tastes but would have to do, and left it with his sister, instructing her to give it to someone named Sherlock Holmes if such a person ever came by their house wondering where John Watson had gone. If he actually sought John out, the letter would tell Sherlock where John was and why John could not meet him at the church any longer.

John was prepared to leave his family, in order to save their property and ensure their happiness. His parents were rather unappreciative, he thought, but at least his sister hugged him and thanked him. The hardest part of it all, as he had expected, was giving up his moments with Sherlock.

After services that week, John approached Father Lestrade and agreed to head with him to the castle, far away from town, far away from a fascinating tall man with a dependable blue scarf.

The ride was a long one. The priest sat across from him in the small carriage, telling John about life in King Holloway’s castle, but the peasant could not really listen to the words when he was still trying to let go of Sherlock. Part of John hoped that Sherlock did not care about John after all, so that the gentleman would not read the letter’s pathetic sentimentality and rudimentary handwriting—John would never have learned to read or write at all if he hadn’t needed to record potion ingredients, and besides, he didn’t have a way with words like the eloquent nobleman did.

Nonetheless, most of John hoped that Sherlock would read the letter, and visit him in what was to become his new home.

“John?” Lestrade asked, with emphasis. At last, John snapped to attention. “That’s better. I know that you have a lot to think about right now, but you need to know the state of things in the castle.”

John shrugged. He had enough to think about without bothering with every last detail of castle affairs. “What could be so important?”

Lestrade heaved a long-suffering sigh. “It’s not a bad place, but noblemen do have their own problems that you should be aware of.”

The seriousness of Lestrade’s tone intrigued John. “Yeah?”

“I’m sure you know that the present King Holloway took over from his brother two years ago, when the war ended. Do you know why the change happened?”

Many loved to gossip about the affairs of rulers, but John had never been interested in that talk. “Not really. Well, it seems reasonable that the first brother abdicated. He must have been tired of it. He’d ruled through a war, after all.”

“That’s not it. Kings have ruled through conflicts since there were kings.”

“Did he become unwell? He might have been too ill to rule.”

Lestrade shook his head. “It was their father’s decision.”

“He is still alive?” John asked. He had always assumed that the father of the current generation of rulers had passed away.

Surprised, Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t stay apprised of news much, do you, John? You never were one for gossip, which speaks well of you, really. Now you should know, though, that the first King Holloway is the one who became too unwell to rule. He no longer walks this earth. It was only about a year ago that he passed on. To be entirely honest, it is by God’s grace alone that he survived as long as he did. He abdicated to his first son, Montgomery Holloway, when the boy was twenty-two.”

John was starting to remember the announcement of Montgomery’s rule. “That was a while back, wasn’t it?”

“Thirteen years ago, in fact. Then the first King Holloway was not very happy with how his son performed as ruler during the war, and he still had the power to choose a new sovereign, so he pretty much forced Montgomery to give up his power when the war ended.”

“Ah, and that’s how William came to be the present King Holloway,” John noted. “But I thought our side did pretty well during the conflict? I mean, when all was over with. I was there, I should know.”

Solemnly, maintaining an objective tone, Lestrade said, “From his father’s point of view, Montgomery disgraced the family because he never fought in battle, on the front lines. Some said he was a coward because of that. William, on the other hand, was very much in the action. He’s like that. I heard he was even wounded, and it wouldn’t surprise me. John, the reason I’m telling you all this is so you do not make an enemy of either brother during your stay. They don’t exactly get along.”

For two brothers who had been pitted against each other like that, John wasn’t surprised. “I don’t see how they can live in the same castle.”

“You’ll see how big the place is, and you’ll understand. They hardly ever come across each other. Montgomery hardly sees anyone anymore.” The objective tone was threatened by a hint of sadness in the priest’s voice. He recovered somewhat, though, when he spotted something through the small window of the carriage. “Here we are.”

John turned to lean out the window, and his jaw dropped. The castle was enormous! Situated at the top of the hill, the grand castle was surrounded by one high unending wall that extended through many towers. John could see the top of a structure inside the walls that was the roof of the stately castle inside. The drawbridge was opened, with armed soldiers, well-dressed merchants, and other horse-drawn carriages freely entering and leaving the castle grounds.

A couple of men employed by the castle came to escort their carriage through the walls and into the regal space, and afterward, to lead John and Father Lestrade into the elegant rooms. John stared at every plush sofa and polished mantle, astounded by the luxury that nobles lived in.

One of the servants nodded to the priest. “Father,” he said familiarly. “Is this King William’s new valet?”

“Valet?”

“It means that you will be his personal servant,” Lestrade told him. Though Lestrade was respectful, the servant rolled his eyes. John blushed, angry with himself for looking like an uneducated peasant. “I believe King William is expecting us?”

“Aye, but he is very busy, you know, running the country and all. He sends his regrets, but he will not be able to meet John this hour. I’m here to show John where he will be sleeping.”

“I see,” Lestrade said. Apologetically, he turned to the newcomer to the castle. “I’m sorry, John. I’d hoped to introduce you to him…”

“That’s all right, Father, I can handle myself.” John nodded his thanks. “I’m sure you have duties here, too.”

“That I do. I will see you around the castle, then.” With one last encouraging smile, Father Lestrade left them. It occurred to John that Lestrade oversaw sermons and confessions in the castle. Maybe he was going to hear more confessions at this moment. How much that man must know that he couldn’t share with the new servant!

The fellow who had met them said, “This way, please.” He led John through a dizzying path of stairways and halls, to the most magnificent bedroom John had ever seen. The large windows were draped with luxurious curtains, antique furniture glistened in the sunlight, and the floor was carpeted with a rich tapestry that felt like a cloud. The four-poster bed had a golden canopy, with thin curtains that reached the floor.

John also saw that there was a smaller, much less imposing bed. Its sheets and pillows were finer than most, but the arrangement did not compare to the first. There was no canopy or curtains to cover it.

“That is where you will sleep,” the other servant said.

Shocked, John sharply inhaled. “What? In the same room as His Majesty?”

“His Majesty was very clear on this point, sir.” Clearly unimpressed by John, the servant put little emphasis on that last word. “He is in need of an assistant who can be called upon at all times.”

John nodded. He had been warned about that. “This William, is he a demanding sort?”

He was answered with a pointed look and a sharp tone. “I would not presume to speak of His Majesty in any negative fashion, and I _highly_ suggest that you show him the same respect. Are you unaware of how to comport yourself around noblemen?”

It took everything John had not to mutter indignantly. “I know how to act. I’ll use only my proper manners.”

“Very good. Your belongings will be brought up from the carriage forthwith. Until then, I am to give you a tour of the rooms in this castle which will be of interest to you.”

John spent the rest of the day following the snobby servant around. He saw many other splendid rooms, especially ones he was likely to work in, such as His Majesty’s offices, the vast meeting and dining area known as the great hall, the private sitting room used for smaller gatherings, the kitchen and its many smaller rooms, and finally the chapel. Though he was able to see a familiar face in Father Lestrade, which was a heartening sight, the pews reminded John too much of a certain scarf-wearing man.

Throughout the day he had been told that King William was too occupied with vital business to bother meeting his newest servant. This was not surprising. John knew that even though his position required that he be close to His Majesty, the ruler would never think of John as anyone of importance. He doubted that William would pay much attention to him at any point in the future.

The few possessions he could call his own were in a trunk next to the bed. These consisted of his plain clothing, which felt insufficient in this castle where everybody was dressed in finery, and a little wooden toy that one of his patients during the war had given him long ago. He considered folding all his clothes properly at least, but his life had changed fundamentally that day, and he was exhausted. He barely had enough energy to change into his simple sleeping gown.

His Royal Highness probably had some haughty rules about what constituted correct sleeping attire and how one slept properly, John mused with a snort. He could worry about King William’s demands tomorrow, if the nobleman ever did finish with his work.

Lulled by his long day, John fell asleep quickly. It was so deep a slumber that he did not stir, even when, a few hours later, a hand gently pulled up the blanket to cover John’s shoulder, wordlessly wishing him a good night.

~~

At first, John woke feeling well rested and peacefully content. His bed was very comfortable, and he had slept for a long time. But once he considered that last fact, he hurriedly opened his eyes and looked about the room in worry. Had he overslept for his strange new employment? Normally, sunlight pouring into his window ensured that he woke at a decent hour, but someone had closed the heavy curtains.

John could see little in the room, as the only light available was what seeped in from under the doorway and at the edges of the curtains. The thin curtains around King William’s bed were also closed, he noticed with a sigh of relief. His master was still asleep, so John would not be reprimanded for being inattentive.

Carefully, John removed himself from the fine linens he had slept in, and made the bed immediately. He wished he knew more about his duties, but keeping this bedroom tidy must be one of them.

What was he to do now? Dress himself in the dark? Draw the curtains and wake his master?

King William had been occupied with work all yesterday, John recalled. He had no way of knowing when His Highness had gone to bed. The man may not take kindly to being roused from a well-deserved slumber. Or perhaps he expected to be woken on time and would be angry that John had shirked his first responsibility?

John stepped gingerly to the curtains and peeked outside. Unsurprisingly, His Highness had a beautiful view from his room. John could see the top of the castle walls and the rolling hills beyond. He could also see that the sun was fairly high in the sky, and that the rest of the people in the area were awake, going about their business.

“Simple creatures, aren’t they?” a low voice asked from somewhere behind John.

Startled, John jumped and turned around quickly. In the dim light, he could make out the silhouette of a man sitting upright on the large bed, pulling aside the curtain. “M’lord?” John managed to say.

“The advisors and the treasurers and the scribes,” the figure continued bitterly. “Working for the success of the country? Ha! Their concerns reach no further than those walls.” Slowly standing up, the man arrogantly crossed his arms. “You are my new servant, aren’t you?”

“Y-Yes, sir.” John swallowed. Though he had known he would be working for a powerful aristocrat, John had not expected his master’s voice to be so deep and commanding. “John Wa—John,” he said, knowing that His Highness would have no interest in a commoner’s last name. “My name is John.”

“I know your name.” William stepped closer, his voice becoming softer, and in a vague way, more familiar to John. “The priest has told me about you.” As he neared, the glow around the curtains licked at the tall figure.

John stood nervously as his new employer approached, unsure of what to do, but then William was there, just in front of him, his face softly illuminated, revealing to John sharp eyes and angular features that he had feared he would never see again.

“But then, I already knew all about you,” the man who looked like Sherlock murmured in the eccentric nobleman’s gentle voice.

John was speechless. Sherlock! Sherlock?

Smoothly, without taking his piercing gaze off the shorter man, Sherlock reached around John and grasped the long string there, pulling it to the side and opening the curtains. The room was now clearly lit, and after his eyes blinked to adjust, John was faced with the undeniable truth that it was Sherlock standing close to him—Sherlock, the unconventional gentleman who had kept him company in the church, wearing a sleeping gown of royal silk and living in this grand bedroom.

“I don’t understand,” John said. “Sherlock, are you…?”

Sternness abruptly set into Sherlock’s face, and his chin slightly rose. “Do not call me Sherlock. That is not who I am here. You will address me as King William.”

John knew the protocol, but it hurt to be spoken to in such a manner by the friend who had been so kind to him before. He couldn’t bear the scornful glare facing him, so he lowered his head. “King… William.”

William coldly turned around and returned to his magnificent bed, falling lazily on his back. “Run a bath for me.”

“Sir?” Though there was so much he wanted to ask, John did not know if he was permitted to do so. He thought he had lost Sherlock, but now that his friend was here, he seemed less reachable than ever. “I…”

“I do not hear the sound of pouring water,” William said impatiently.

“Yes, uh, right away.” Afraid of angering the man who was, after all, supporting his family, John quickly scurried past the beds and into the luxurious private bathroom, still in his sleeping gown. He had to see to the needs of his king first. John had never been in a home with piped-in water before, yet he had used public bathhouses like most common folk did, and the mechanisms were basically the same. He turned a small wheel and water poured from a tap into the ruler’s rather large bath. Undoubtedly, the water had already been prepared elsewhere.

While the water level was rising, John leaned heavily on the bath’s side. How could it be that he had spent months speaking to King William and never knew it? Why did Sherlock deceive him? With some sadness, he wondered why things had now changed.

Even if his charming, brilliant Sherlock was in reality a conceited ruler, John still found himself feeling happy and relieved that it was Sherlock whom he served. The apothecary's son would never have agreed to be the servant of someone who was so dear to him, since he had learned not to rely on the kindness of others, so in a way, Sherlock’s cold manner made this acceptable, believable.

William imperiously entered his bathroom. “Is the water ready yet?”

John nearly remarked that His Highness could check for himself, but he knew better. He eyed the water level. “It’s ready.”

“Good. Now undress me.”

John’s heart jumped in his chest, his pulse suddenly racing. “W-What?” he stammered.

“Do you intend to make me repeat myself?” The dignified, beautiful man held his arms apart, ready to be divested of his dressing gown. “You will undress me, and then clean me with the sponge.”

All the inappropriate thoughts that John had ever had for Sherlock were rushing back to him. The nobleman’s soft manner had always been heart-warming, his focused energy electrifying. Though the gentle demeanour was nowhere to be found, and he was not wearing the scarf that John had grown accustomed to seeing around the tall man’s neck, William was no less magnificent to behold. He was refined and dominant, with something more passionate just beneath the surface.

John pushed his absurd emotions far away, reminding himself that Sherlock was now stiff and inhospitable. He took a deep breath and, keeping his gaze at a safe height, untied William’s dressing gown. The garment slipped off the graceful figure easily. It was difficult for John not to blatantly admire the smooth, fair skin exposed in front of him. John’s breath hitched when he glimpsed that William had been wearing nothing under the dressing gown.

The servant breathed a little more easily when William sat down in the water, covering most of him with almost adequate translucence, until John remembered that he had to clean his master with the sponge. He grabbed it from where it was sitting to the side, and dipped it into the bowl of soft soap.

William was quiet, waiting. He leaned forward, allowing John access to his back.

“Um, thank you,” John mumbled, not knowing what to say but needing to say something to the man he had thought he knew. Kneeling by the bath, he reached forward and began to sponge the king’s back. He couldn’t believe he was touching Sherlock, his incredible Sherlock… “You are really King William?”

The question might have been seen as impertinent, and Sherlock hadn’t always been forthcoming with answers in any case. Fortunately, His Highness allowed the question, though he answered it curtly. “Yes.”

The sponge moved to the ruler’s shoulder, and gradually, down his left arm. “Why did you call yourself Sherlock, then?” John asked. Now that John knew the truth, it wasn’t hard to see that William Holloway had disguised his name as Sherlock Holmes, but he did not know why the king had done so.

William uttered dismissively, “That does not matter now.”

He sounded annoyed by that particular question, so John did not press it further. Instead, he ventured, “It was very generous of you, to pay my family’s debts just for my labour. Did you mean to hire me, sir, to be your… servant?”

“You would not take charity,” William said quietly, in the soft and thoughtful way that reminded John of the Sherlock he had known before.

John’s hand stopped. He recalled telling Sherlock about working a second job to provide for his family, and the sympathy that had shined in the nobleman’s eyes. “You did this for me?”

Quickly, William’s head turned and he snapped, “No!”

“N-No?”

“You don’t believe in accepting charity of any kind. Why would you believe this is charity?” William sat up straight, and extended his arm further to help in John’s task. “You see me as I am, a ruler above all other men,” he stated haughtily. “I don’t employ you out of generosity. You are a healer, and a soldier. You are useful, that is all.”

John could accept that answer, except that it sounded very familiar. To be precise, it was what Sherlock had said when he was reassuring John that he could find better work.

“You will serve me well,” William said. “It is a fair exchange for what I have done for your family. You should also know, I have made it clear that your sister is in charge of your family’s expenses—she may not be the most exceptionally clever individual, but it seemed to me that she had more of a head for frugality than either parent, at least as far as her potential is concerned once she receives some guidance in those matters, and I have made some arrangements for such guidance to be provided.”

John smiled a little. “You mean, you’re helping my family stay out of debt.”

“A fair part of our exchange,” William said simply. When John had finished gently soaping one hand, the nobleman drew his other arm out from the water, wordlessly commanding John to clean it.

It was there that John noticed a faint scar, on the forearm. He could tell that it was from a sword wound, and several years old. Father Lestrade had said something about King William serving in the war, hadn’t he? It was probably from that time, then. John himself had treated a soldier with an injury resembling this one, years ago. Carefully, knowing very well how such wounds could feel, John asked, “Is this area tender, sir?”

William looked away, not bothering to face his servant directly. “It is fine.”

John nodded, and proceeded with sponging the arm, though he was still very careful around the old war wound. As he cleaned the area, though, he noticed the hue of William’s distracted face become a little more flushed. John asked, “You’re sure I’m not hurting you?”

“It is _fine_ ,” William repeated emphatically, sounding slightly more hoarse than before. He suddenly took his arm back and lifted a leg up, letting his foot rest on the bath wall.

Sincerely hoping that he had not caused Sherlock any pain, John moved obediently to clean the man’s leg. He was now in front of William, and could see little droplets falling slowly down his master’s toned, soft-hued chest. He also knew that he would be seeing a lot more if the water level were only lower and there was not so much cloudy soap.

John wasn’t sure how far up his master’s leg he was permitted or expected to clean, but the temptation was immense. As respectfully as he could, he carefully glided the sponge past William’s knee and just up his thigh, into the water.

William’s hand snapped out, latching onto John’s. “I think,” he muttered tersely, “I can finish myself.”

Shame bore down on John. He blushed, afraid that he had overstepped his boundaries. “I’m s-sorry, M’lord, I didn’t mean—”

“My clothes are being prepared in the laundry.” The sponge was now in William’s hand, and John had sheepishly turned away. “Retrieve them for me after you have changed out of that thing you call a nightgown.”

Eager to redeem himself, John nodded and quickly left the bathroom, closing the door so his master would have privacy. He changed into day clothes and left the grand quarters. He was surprised to see two guards traversing the long hallway outside of the bedroom, but fortunately they did not seem to think John was an intruder. In fact, they didn’t seem to notice him at all. John approached one of them anyway and asked him where he could find the laundry. Following the guard’s directions, the servant made his way to the laundry and found his way back, King William’s clothes in tow.

~~

By the time John returned, King William had finished his bath, and towel-dried himself, leaving his hair so adorably tussled that John’s breath caught in his throat. John thought that in plain underwear, William would have seemed like a normal commoner, if not for his noble posture and examining eyes.

At his master’s direction, John dressed William carefully, stealing a look at the conflicting emotions passing over the royal face of His Highness. He seemed agitated, yet reserved, evidently in no mood to share whatever was troubling him.

John was spellbound by the magnificent image William made in his long royal coat, but he couldn’t help being concerned by his master’s melancholy. “M’lord, is something troubling you?”

William was looking away, at the bed where John had slept, lost in thought.

“Sir?”

“You will need a new wardrobe if you are to be my attendant,” William remarked, off-handedly.

John adjusted his shirt, and shrugged. “I have no finer clothes than these.”

“The castle will provide what you need. Seek out Lestrade, and tell him that it is by my command that you be given new clothes. For whatever reason, he seems to have an eye for selecting clothes, and will help you make an order. Take what time you need. I will be speaking with the treasurers today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, don’t think it charitable that you should be given new clothes. It is imperative that the attendant of someone in my position should be dressed for the job.”

With a flourish of his coat, King William left him to head out the room and down the hallway, in the direction of the royal offices and meeting rooms. John went to the castle chapel, the most likely place for one to find Father Lestrade, but the priest was not there.

John asked around the residential area of the castle, thinking that perhaps the priest had retired to a room or was giving someone advice. A few people mentioned seeing Lestrade walk down a certain hallway, so John moved in that direction. It was new territory for John, located fairly far away as it was from rooms King William frequented.

There were no guards dedicated to this spot. In fact, there was little to see but a solitary set of doors. John knocked politely, yet firmly. “Father Lestrade?”

The door opened slightly, revealing the priest’s surprised face. “John? What are you doing over here?”

“M’lord wants me to have a new wardrobe,” John told him. “He thinks you have a knack for picking out clothes.”

“Oh, well, I’ve helped him with clothes in the past,” Father Lestrade said, “but it isn’t really true that I have a sense for fashion. I can trust you, can’t I, John? Please don’t tell His Highness, but I merely passed on what someone else told me.”

“Who?”

“The man in this room,” Lestrade murmured. John tried to peek in the room over the priest’s shoulder. He could see that the room was elegantly decorated, as nice as William’s quarters if not more so. However, Father Lestrade let him look no further. “I’m sorry, John, he doesn’t like visitors.”

“Oh.” This wasn’t the first John had heard of a man who did not see anyone. “Is it Prince Montgomery?”

Father Lestrade nodded. “He is in a particularly sour mood today, and I don’t want anything to upset him.”

John held firm. He didn’t want to fail William. “But he could help me acquire clothes that would meet with m’lord’s approval?”

Suddenly, Lestrade brightened. “You know, it does lift his spirits when he gets to talk about fashion. It is a hobby of his. The finer points of it, the little details that nobody else sees, you know, he can lose himself in the topic! John, I’ll let you in, but if he does not wish to speak with you, then you will need to leave. And, ahem,” the priest cleared his throat, “it would be a good idea not to mention that you work for King William.”

The door was opened, and John was led to an adjoining sitting room where a quiet man was sitting stiffly in an armchair, arms folded in arrogance similar to that possessed by William. It had to be admitted that he was dressed in style, in fabrics befitting a man who had once held power over the country. He was tall and fair, like his brother.

Montgomery’s eyes narrowed at John. “You let someone in here, Lestrade?”

“I’m sorry sir,” Lestrade began, “but John’s a new servant here, and an old pal of mine, too. He needs an updated wardrobe.”

The other man visibly relaxed. “I see,” he said, a new interest in his voice. He stood up, and approached John, appraising him effortlessly. “An apothecary… The son of one, rather, though you are an expert in your own right. You served in the war, no doubt.”

“Uh, yes? I don’t think we’ve met. I w-would’ve remembered meeting you!” John stammered nervously to the former king.

“Peasants,” Montgomery muttered. He slowly circled around John, looking him up and down. “Something traditional for you, I believe. A belted tunic would do. I advise cross-gartered leggings, they do wonders for short men.”

John bristled in place, but he kept his mouth shut.

“You need a pair of non-appalling boots, shorter ones. A sturdy cap and a small cloak, for the colder months. Make the arrangements, Lestrade. Earthy hues, if you please.”

“I will do so,” the priest agreed. The change in Montgomery’s mood seemed to be pleasing Father Lestrade very much. “Perhaps, sir, you would like to sew the cloak for him?”

John was certain that noblemen didn’t sew clothes for their servants, but Montgomery seemed delighted, in his own subdued way. “Do you think I should, Lestrade?”

“Of course, sir! A servant needs to have correct attire, doesn’t he?”

Montgomery smirked, and began to search through a chest of drawers, which seemed to have fabric supplies.

“Well,” John said, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Yes, good. Lestrade, consider my previous orders delayed. You will stand here and model the cloak. John, you may return later for your measurements.”

Father Lestrade hummed in agreement. He smiled his thanks to John, who still didn’t really understand these strange people in this odd castle. Nonetheless, it was nice to provide some cheer for these two, even if he didn’t know Montgomery that well.

John began to leave the room, but as he moved away, he passed by a mirror and looked for a moment, imagining himself in the quality clothing of a royal attendant. Would King William notice his humble servant then?

Shaking his head and attempting to clear himself of foolish longings, John left, Prince Montgomery marking a string around a sheepish but pleased Father Lestrade behind him.

In the meantime, John returned to his master’s room, and since King William was not there, the servant decided he would make himself useful by cleaning the suite. After John had been permitted to undress William and clean him in a bath, as maddening as that had been, it seemed likely that there was to be little privacy between them. Certainly, the master would allow John to clean the contents of the bedroom’s drawers.

John was certain that King William had not depended on the aid of a personal servant in some time, judging from the disorderly look of fine shirts and trousers thrown carelessly into the bureau. In the bottom drawer, though, John discovered something interesting.

At that moment, William entered into the room. “John! I see you haven’t changed your wardrobe,” he scoffed. “Did not hear my order? If you are to be of any use to me, you must know your place. You are my servant, you are… what are you holding?”

Saddened by William’s little tirade, John tried to turn around and hide what he had found. He thought of pointing out that clothes needed time to be made, but he believed, or hoped, that there was some other cause for William’s anger. Trying to change the subject, John asked, “Did something upset you today?”

William wasn’t fooled. “What use could you have for my wood-carving knife, John? Do you intend to harm me with it?”

“What? No, not at all, sir,” John said sincerely. He presented the large-handled knife innocuously. “Why do you own a knife such as this?”

“For protection,” William said, too quickly.

“But it’s not that kind of dagger. You just said it was a wood-carving knife.”

“It is none of your business.”

Believing that he could help William somehow, if he only knew what the problem was, John bravely turned back to the drawer and searched it again, uncovering a shaved block of wood.

“John, stop that!”

Determined to make things right, John ignored those words, and examined the block. He couldn’t tell what the unfinished carving had been meant to be. Like so many other things about his master, it was an unknown. “You like to carve, sir? It’s a good hobby. Nothing wrong with that.”

“It’s a waste of time,” William muttered, his chin held high. “Proper noblemen do not invest their efforts in such mundane tasks.”

It had been moving earlier, when Father Lestrade had justified his troubled companion’s indulgence in sewing. Following the inspiration of the priest, John said, “But, um, if it’s not too much of an imposition, I think you could help Father Lestrade. He needs a small cross for hanging about his neck.”

William considered that. “Does he?”

“Yes, absolutely. No proper priest could be without a cross.”

Rocking on his heels with a poorly contained enthusiasm, William took the knife and block from John, and took a seat in his armchair, beginning his work at once.

Wanting to keep William clean from the inevitable shavings, John retrieved a small towel from the bathroom and tried not to be too intrusive when he laid it out on his master’s lap.

Despite John’s unobtrusiveness, William noticed his subtle assistance. “John… You don’t think this is too ordinary an activity for me?”

“Why would I think that, sir? I thought people of all stations had hobbies. Actually, I thought you liked to inspect the dirt on peoples’ shoes,” John said with a smirk.

That earned him a sudden and sharp glare from William, which made John feel more sad than offended. “I am not Sherlock, John. Put that person far from your mind.” Then William looked down again, at his tools and himself. “He should never have been… Him and Mycroft, they were just the misguided illusions of children…”

“Mycroft?”

When John said that name, William was silent for a long moment. He shut his eyes. But at last, he spoke. “Mycroft was Sherlock’s dear brother. But no, there is no Sherlock, and no Mycroft.” He started speaking more quickly. “We are noblemen, and we are above such things. We have responsibilities, duties to our country. We cannot play games, we cannot have hobbies, and certainly no friends. Take the knife and block away, John, I should not waste my time with them.”

Suddenly, John pictured a young, adorable little William, kicking his feet as he carved from wood. John also thought of Prince Montgomery… Mycroft. The older boy, talking amiably with his brother, sewing for the enjoyment of it. Two boys who got along well, before the obligations of their lives made them bitter rivals.

It must have been their father who taught them such things, John supposed, or maybe it was everyone around them, or maybe they learned it on their own.

John was starting to understand just who Sherlock was. As if he was not speaking to one of the individuals in question, he asked, “Were Sherlock and Mycroft friends?”

“They trusted each other with secrets that only friends would share.” A touch of nostalgia brightened William’s face. “Sherlock did foolish things, you know. He had legitimate creations, of course, but he also carved questionable tools—lock picks, and copies of keys, for instance. Poles for accessing what had intentionally been put beyond his reach. He never did manage to escape the castle of boredom on his own,” William admitted, “but then Mycroft was there, with a coat and hat of his own making, for Sherlock. A disguise for blending in with the merchants. He told me,” the nobleman’s voice caught for a moment, “he told me to gather all the clues I could find about what the villagers were up to, and to report back to him. Oh, I was so excited, John!”

John smiled, touched. His dear friend was sharing so much with him.

“It was then that I took a codename, one that wasn’t so pretentious as my given one. My brother created a name as well, since he occasionally accompanied me to town. We had never personally seen how the public lived outside the castle walls, and there was so much to learn about them.” Thoughtfully, William glanced up at the ceiling. “He was always Mycroft to me, after that.”

John felt sympathy for the arrogant brothers who had once been so close. “And you were Sherlock to him?” he asked.

It was with a mix of fondness and regret that William clutched his block of wood more tightly. “I wonder. Maybe… It would not be so bad, to carve just a little… Lestrade needs it, after all.”

Reassuringly, John gently touched William’s shoulder. “Of course, m’lord.”

William—no, Sherlock, it was Sherlock’s eyes that shined brightly at John.

John did not leave William’s company for the rest of the day, too protective of his master. Though it was an irrational fear, the servant was afraid of someone coming by and giving Sherlock undue shame for spending energy on a hobby.

At night, after the curtains had been closed, and each man had settled into his bed, John heard a softly murmured, “Thank you,” from his master, and felt his heart grow full.

~~

The longer that John worked in the castle, the more of his day was spent at William’s side. In the beginning, William had secluded himself in his office when work was to be done, but he came to allow John to sit by him, and sometimes he would speak to his servant about the decisions being made for the country.

It was all new to John. Having not studied much on the subjects, he did not understand a great deal about the economy, or religious matters at the level of the state, and though he had been a soldier, general military strategy was foreign to him. Regardless, William seemed to understand it all thoroughly, and it made John proud. His master was so capable and intelligent.

William was also allowing John to share his meals with the king. After John served the food to him, William immediately directed that John sit next to him, and John was eager to do so. Noblemen had very specific rules for eating that William had to teach to John, but the servant did not mind learning these customs if it meant he could have more time with William.

Then there were the baths. John would never say so out loud, but he waited with anticipation for every opportunity to assist William with that task. Fortunately, his master had forgiven him for overstepping his boundaries the first time, and John was permitted to clean him again. The servant was careful to touch William in only perfectly acceptable places, though that did little to keep John’s wandering thoughts in check.

As part of the castle staff, John, too, was required to bathe once a week. Of course, nobody assisted him, but King William generously allowed John to use his own luxurious bath. It was a kind offer, one that John feared he was betraying when he sank into the water and thought of how Sherlock would feel against his body if they were to bathe together.

John’s feelings for Sherlock had not diminished. If anything, he had only become more infatuated with him after learning of the adventurous childhood and complicated past hidden behind William’s arrogant facade.

Having such tender feelings for his master, John felt a conflicted rift tore through his heart when William asked his servant if he would spend a night in his lord’s bed.

It had started routinely enough, with John helping William change his clothes and trying not to be too obvious about admiring his master’s graceful beauty as he did so. John often asked himself whether he was full of regret or relief that William required no help with his undergarments.

After the nobleman had stretched his arms back and allowed John to dress him with the light dressing gown William usually slept in, there was a surprising change in the routine. William had turned around, and noted that John still needed to change for bed. The king offered his hands, and began unbuttoning John’s clothes.

John had blushed terribly, saying quickly that there was no need for m’lord to assist him with such a basic chore, that it was only John’s duty to change William and not the reverse, but the king had shushed him with a finger to John’s lips, and that had only made the hapless servant blush more. William had easily guided John’s arms up so he could remove the man’s tunic, and, standing behind him, assisted in taking off John’s trousers, gliding his hands down the peasant’s body.

By the time William lowered the sleeping gown over John’s shoulders, it was all John could do to keep his own breathing steady. If he was not careful he would fool himself into thinking that his master cared for him, since if that he happened he was liable to swoon in his beautiful lord’s arms.

William’s hands still rested on John’s shoulders when he was dressed for bed. The tall man spoke calmly near John’s ear, “Was there something else you needed, John?”

John battled against his own inappropriate excitement. “No, sir, I’m here to serve you.”

For a moment William was silent, but he did not move away. “My sweet, loyal John,” he murmured.

“M’lord?”

William touched John’s shoulder. “John, would you share my bed with me tonight?”

John inhaled sharply, stunned that the man he had longed for, one who was so far above his own place in life, would say those words. He must be wrong about what was being offered. Could William only mean for them to sleep side-by-side? “What do you mean?”

“There are some things I have dreamed of, things I have never revealed outside of confession before now, and some things, not even revealed there.” Suddenly, William’s voice wavered, losing a touch of its confidence. “Perhaps, I should not reveal these things now, either.” William’s hand fell away from John.

John turned to face William. “No, please, you can tell me,” he said, hopeful and sympathetic.

“If you do not wish to share my bed, then you will never have to. Here is your own bed,” William remarked quietly, waving weakly to John’s place, “and it will remain, for me to never intrude upon. But… you have been a kind servant to me, and,” here, his eyebrows twitched in consternation, “no, I could order you to my bed, why shouldn’t I? Off with that gown, John.”

Astonished, John nervously opened his mouth to speak, having no idea what to say, but William cut him off before he could sputter embarrassed nonsense.

“Forgive me, John, I’m sorry, I have no right to order you in that way. Oh, blast it all, I said I was sorry, I am not supposed to say that,” William muttered. It sounded more like he was speaking to himself.

“M’lord, if you do wish it,” John began uncertainly.

“You care far too much for my wishes.”

John swallowed the words of affection he longed to say. He settled for something more suitable. “That’s what I’m here for, m’lord.”

“No… I cannot…” William stepped away from John, though he seemed lost, not sure where to go. At last, he made up his mind, and blew out the last candle, setting the room into dim light, illuminated only by the tiny amount of light from stars and lamps that reached into their room. “Forget what I said. Goodnight, John.” He retreated onto his bed, and drew up the thin curtains immediately. His silhouette prompted laid down and rolled over, facing away from where John’s bed was.

John sat down on his own bed, but he didn’t settle himself in. He was left bewildered by what had just happened, and what he himself felt. Confused most of all about what it was that William wanted, he watched the form of his master trying to fall asleep.

“I said _goodnight_ , John,” William grunted, and though it had always been known in the back of his mind, at that moment, John understood clearly that William could see the outline of the servant’s figure from behind his curtains, just as John could see William.

Following his master’s direction, John lied down, but he did not feel tired. It was too engrossing to think about William. Did he truly want to share that large bed with his servant? Did his servant mean anything to him?

It could only be the wishes of a powerful and lonely king, nothing more. Yet, even if he were the ruler of the land, Sherlock would not use him in a wholly selfish way. That was John’s firm belief. There was too much of the gentle, eccentric nobleman John had known within the man who slept on that large bed for that to happen. This firm belief also meant that, even if he truly was lonely, William would not make such an intimate request again. It made John’s heart beat a little faster to know that Sherlock was a gentle soul. The conflicted king probably regretted saying anything at all this night.

John stood up from his place, parted the curtain around King William’s bed, and climbed on top of it, to sit on his knees.

It was dark, but he could see William’s head move up in shock. “John? Is that you?”

“Yes, sir.” John touched the top of the other man’s blanket. He prayed that he would be allowed to do this, even if it was only in his service at King William’s humble attendant. “I don’t want you to be lonely.”

“Y-You,” William breathed, and it charmed John to hear his eloquent master being the one caught off guard for a change, “you don’t have to do anything, didn’t you hear me? I apologised, didn’t I?”

“M’lord, what you asked before, did you mean it?”

William hesitated. “Yes,” he murmured. “I do want you, John. But you owe nothing to me.”

John lowered William’s blanket, and gently undid the sash around his master’s dressing gown.

William’s voice was soft, and just a little sad. “John… Didn’t you hear me…?”

The strange man who had visited John and talked to him so generously in church had always been beautiful. John wished he could light up William’s bed and see his lovely Sherlock, but it was spectacular simply to feel him. John touched the other man’s chest, and moved his hands in small circles, massaging the nobleman’s sides. “Is this good?”

William’s moans were quiet, subdued, but they stirred John’s spirit. “Yes, John.”

Feeling his way further down, John’s eyes widened, and then darkened with lust. He had not noticed that William had become so aroused.

“Oh, John, you feel magnificent. I’m… sorry,” William whispered, “you don’t have to touch me, you really don’t have to.”

“It feels nice,” John murmured, unthinkingly. His fingers flexed experimentally, and tightened, feeling his master’s need.

“J-John, oh… yes, please…” There was restraint in William’s guilt-laden voice, but he sounded so forsaken and uncared for.

It was deeply moving to John to hear the sounds that Sherlock made. With all the protectiveness he felt for his king, John held him in hand, and kissed his tip.

“Oh!” William responded with an unconscious thrust that became a full-body shudder when the nobleman tried to keep himself still. “John…” Struggling to regain control, William held onto John’s shoulders.

Drawn inexorably to Sherlock, John leaned forward to gently learn the forbidden taste of the man who was by far his superior, delighted that Sherlock was whimpering with pleasure now. His own body was loving every moment of this, though he knew he wasn’t going to be seeing to his own urges tonight. This was all to comfort the greatest man he had ever known, his brilliant Sherlock.

John closed his mouth completely over the other man’s need, and William cried out powerfully, his deep voice alive with passion. “John! My John!” He could feel his master’s body tremble, and guided William’s hips so that he could please his lord in a soothing rhythm.

The servant was smitten with this man, with what they were doing together, although his joy was diminished by a fear that he would not be allowed to do this again. Noblemen were still men, and they could become lonely as many others did, but John did not think that he was worthy enough to hold a place of meaning in Sherlock’s heart. He was King William, after all, which meant that he had his pick of all the country had to offer, but for this moment at least, he had John, and John could give him everything.

There was nobody who knew better than John not to expect anything in return.

This was a gift in its own way, though, being trusted to hear William gasp and feel him throb with desire. John held his king’s hips more firmly and sucked him, enjoying the rush of such a taboo act and appreciating this closeness he had with his dear Sherlock.

“Yes, oh, o-oh, my darling John…” William was becoming less coherent, but he still sounded so refined, so forceful somehow. John treasured every breath he made. “Is it… oh, yes, y-yes… really you…?”

Filled with strong feelings that made his body warm and his heart even warmer, John paused long enough to answer him. “It’s me. I’ll always be here for you, Sherlock,” he said, and then took William in his mouth again, rising and falling, as encouraging as he could be.

William cried breathlessly and spilled himself, his trembling slowly calming, becoming a lethargic contentment, all while John cleaned him intimately and carefully. Even if this gift was over, John was thrilled that now he had sensations to carry with him to his dreams.

As William slowly recovered his wits, he reached for John.

“No, m’lord,” John said urgently, hoping to cover up his mistake in calling William by the wrong name a moment ago, “you don’t need to do anything for me. I’m very happy I could help you.”

William froze, and then nodded in understanding.

“Um, well, if that’s all, then?” John had been so determined to give all his love to Sherlock, but now John, not wishing to overstay his welcome, didn’t know whether he should stay or return to his own bed. “I suppose I’ll go.”

Without bothering to discuss it, William adjusted his clothes back to a reasonably proper state, then wrapped his arms around John and pulled him under the blankets, hugging him. “You wouldn’t make your master sleep alone, would you?” William asked, yet despite the arrogant words, there was nothing but vulnerability in his voice.

John was so happy to be hugged by his captivating Sherlock. He smiled. “Never.”

William grunted in hardly-concealed gratitude, and though John could not expect to sate the heat that was calming to a simmer in his own body, he appreciated it anyway, as one of the many nice feelings that came with being held with his back to Sherlock’s chest.

~~

John felt at peace as he woke, slowly opening his eyes to the dim calmness of morning. He was nestled in luxurious linens, and comforted by the warm, firm body in a dressing gown behind him, and by the solid arm around him.

Then he remembered where he was, who he was with, and worst of all, he knew that the desire that had grown in him last night, if it had lessened before he fell asleep, had only flourished during the night. At least the blanket covered him, because without it John knew his underwear and sleeping gown would do little to conceal his urgent feelings for the man holding him.

John wished he could share his feelings with him. As it was, he could only hope that he had served King William well enough last night, and that John might be forgiven for defying what was proper. Carefully, John grasped William’s hand to extricate himself.

“Mm?” William mumbled, his hold on John tightening reflexively.

John mentally chided himself, for he had really not wished to wake William. “I’m sorry. You can go back to sleep now, sir, I merely mean to rise and return your bed to you.”

“Why would you do that?” William released John, only to gently guide him flat onto the bed. Eyes wide, John went easily with the motion.

Propping himself up on his elbows, William looked down at John. They were very close, and John could see the most beautiful tenderness in William’s eyes. He only hoped that his master would not see the bright tint of his own embarrassed cheeks.

“Is there something you need?” asked William.

“I um, I should be asking you that,” John managed to state. He badly wanted to kiss William, though he knew that could never be allowed.

In an intimate move that made John’s body ache for more, William moved his legs to entwine with his servant’s. John was mortified and delighted all at once when he felt William’s thigh against his crotch.

“Oh,” William murmured.

Hating himself for letting William find out about his excited state, John quickly tried to correct the situation. “I’m sorry, sir, please forgive me. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll—”

“Sh, John. Would you like me to touch you?”

John gasped from the thought alone. “Yes,” he whispered.

With a smile, William lifted the sleeping gown, and let it rest around John’s stomach. The nobleman slipped his hand into bulging underwear.

John was so aroused and desperate that he lost his voice. William’s hand rubbed him with long and steady strokes.

William began to whisper near John’s neck, as he caressed John’s shoulder with his other hand, “There, relax for me, John,” he kissed just below John’s jaw, “that would gratify me so.”

“Y-You,” John gasped, “you like this?”

“Pleasing you?” William asked, his voice low. He continued to kiss John’s neck, and to stroke him firmly. “Immensely.”

That meant so much to John, who was terrified of imposing on his master this way. He was afraid of what William would think when he felt himself grow wet, but his kind master touch lingered there, and John could only tremble and clutch the sheets beneath him.

“You would never take from me,” William said. “You would never take from anyone,” his hand becoming a fist, steadily moving faster for John, “but there is so much I can give you.”

“Oh…” No matter how he tried, it was impossible for John to keep his moans contained. It felt wonderful to be this close to Sherlock. “M-M’lord…”

“My John, my dearest.” When William was being so generous, John could barely concentrate on what his master said; all the same, his gentle voice captivated him. “You saved me. You’ve saved me many times, John.”

“Sir,” John breathed. He was close, but surely it was asking too much to lose himself in his master’s bed. “I want you so badly, Sherlock. I can’t help it.”

“You don't need to. Stay with me.” Now William opened his dressing gown—his own significant need apparent through his clothes—and closed his thighs around John’s length.

Overwhelmed, John cried out his joy. He helplessly thrust up and spent himself, spilling all that he had over William’s briefs. It was heaven, and it buoyed his spirit to feel his master’s legs entwine more closely with his own, though a part of him was coherent enough to fear the consequences of being so wanton under his lord’s attention.

William gave John a terribly sweet kiss on his forehead, and then moved back to his side of the bed, turning away, leaving the servant feeling bereft.

“Sir?” John asked. Physically, he felt relaxed, but something was missing when William was not with him.

“That’s enough.” As if he had not just shared a remarkable moment with his servant, the mercurial nobleman muttered arrogantly, “You have done more than enough.” He stood up from the bed, retying his dressing gown, making his way to the bathroom.

“Have I failed you?”

William stopped in his tracks, standing a bit uncomfortably. John shuddered to think that his own stain dirtied the nobleman’s legs under the dressing gown, and immediately he regretted stopping him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, please ignore me, sir.”

Not once turning back to face him, William continued to the bathroom, and began running water to the bath, leaving the door open.

It had seemed that William had truly enjoyed some part of their intimacy, but now John felt as if everything he had done had wronged William somehow. He followed William into the bathroom, for the obvious reason that he could redeem himself by being of service, and for the secret reason he did not admit to himself, that he could barely stand to be away from Sherlock, so suddenly, after learning the feel of his arms.

“You do not need to assist me,” William said, loudly enough to be heard over the filling water, but in a subdued tone.

John busied himself with preparing the soap and sponge, trying to look like he belonged there. “I would like to.”

William hesitated, and waited to speak until after the water had filled the bath. “It was generous of you, John, to see to my needs last night, and, in another way, this morning.” John fancied that his master was blushing now, and it was adorable. Was he seeing things or did William just steal a touch of his own soiled underwear, and with a look of appreciation? “But… it is not a necessary part of your employment for me, and I pray it was never seen as such.”

Keeping his voice humble and not impertinent, John dared, “You did enjoy it, though? Uh, last evening more than this morning, no doubt.”

William chuckled. It was a deep sound, with more rue than mirth. “Last night paled in comparison to what this morning gave to me.” He looked meaningfully at John. “You cannot possibly know how spectacular you are. This country can offer me nothing more beautiful.”

“I… um…” What could John possibly say? “The water’s filled.”

“Ah. Would you help me in?” William smiled, but it seemed to John to be more of a kingly, social smile, which he actually didn’t often see on William’s face. “That is not so far outside of your duties.”

Not sure of what he was allowed at this point, John carefully approached. “Of course.” His eyes too guilty to wander, he swiftly helped William undress, and aided his step into the bath clouded with bubbles.

“Ah, thank you. Now, John, I’m afraid I will have to ask you to give me privacy.”

John hoped that William had misspoken. “You want me to leave?”

“Not in the least, but, I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that… that your earlier pleasure did not escape my notice,” William said hurriedly. “I need to… see to myself, you understand.”

John certainly did understand. Understanding had hit him suddenly like a gust of wind. He kneeled down, leaned on the side of the bath, and took a deep breath, summoning all his courage. “I want you to know that I’m your loyal servant, Sherlock.”

William’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh, uh, King William,” John corrected himself. “You, um, asked me to stay with you, earlier. Could I stay?”

Slowly, William nodded. He even allowed John to clean him with the sponge again, and when John’s touch strayed near to the thighs, the nobleman told him he could continue as far as he was willing. This morning must have held some meaning for William if he was still so affected despite last evening. When John started to clean William’s intimate parts, his master shut his eyes tightly.

None of William’s movements were escaping John now. “Are you all right?”

“You cared for me, John, when I needed you most,” William said softly.

“M’lord?”

William opened his eyes, and John saw that there were tears in his master’s eyes.

John, stirred by the many tumultuous feelings he had for this man, moved most of all by the need to comfort him, pulled his Sherlock close to him without thinking, and kissed him, tasting him deeply when William’s lips parted in surprise.

Then William groaned, and joined him whole-heartedly, despite the streaks down his face.

John did the best he could for King William. When the enchanting man spent himself, John supported him, cleaning him as thoroughly as before.

When they were dressed at last, it felt surreal to John. William was again in his regal finery, and John, who hadn’t received his order of clothes yet, was revealed by his worn raiment to be only a peasant.

Outside of King William’s quarters, the nobleman continued to carry himself with royal aplomb, and walked with authority before his servant. William saw to his duties and the administration of the castle, followed wherever he went by John, who never had to be asked. Things were much the same as when John had first begun his work.

In the privacy of their shared room, however, everything had changed. John would be pulled close to his master and kissed. Even though John would offer to see to everything for his king, William would undress him, and care lovingly for him.

John was touched by how generous his master was. William did not have John’s bed removed, allowing John to keep to himself if he wished, but William also allowed John to join in the larger bed, which was the servant’s preferred option every night.

Thrilled to be given such liberties with William, John went through his day in a happy daze, dreaming of all the secrets that William had yet to share with him, that he might trust him with someday. Maybe John could help his master truly enjoy himself as Sherlock again.

He was incredibly fortunate to have as much time as he had with King William. John was not the highborn noble lady that King William was supposed to be with. Nobles did not fall in love with their servants. But for now, he could gladly be in love with his master.

There came a day when William had to leave for town on business, and he made it clear that a simple servant was not needed. Sad that he could not follow his master outside of the castle walls, John obediently stayed in the castle nonetheless. It was nice to find that he could now navigate the labyrinthine halls with ease, at least to reach the rooms he cared to use.

He decided that he would visit the castle’s chapel. It was a place that reminded him of his time with Mr. Holmes. John went there, and was happy to see a familiar face at least, even if John now felt a little guilty in the presence of a pious man.

“Welcome, John,” Father Lestrade said. “I’m glad I saw you. Your clothes just arrived. I had them sent to King William’s quarters.”

It was too bad John had not known that earlier, or maybe he would have been presentable enough to accompany King William. He could hope for the next time, though. “Thank you, Father.”

“The cloak is not done yet, though.” Lestrade smiled. “It’ll be worth the wait. You won’t be disappointed when you see it.”

John grinned. “You’ll be getting a pretty nice gift soon, too.”

“Me?”

“That’s right. I told King William that you needed a cross,” John said. “You can keep a secret, too, right? Did you know he likes to carve things out of wood?”

“Ah… Our lords are two of a kind, aren’t they?”

John thought about cute little Sherlock, getting into trouble with his brother. “If only we could remind them of that.”

Lestrade grew sombre. “A worthy goal, but easier said than done.” He clapped John on the shoulder in a friendly sign of camaraderie, and spoke to some of the other worshippers before exiting the chapel. He probably went somewhere to wait on Prince Montgomery. It was plain to see that Father Lestrade and the former King Holloway were very close.

For a moment, John wondered just how similar the two lords were. Was Montgomery risking his own scandal? The servant shook his head, finding the thought ridiculous. Lestrade was a holy man, after all.

John wanted to do anything that would make King William happy, and he was certain that reuniting him with his brother would do just that, but for now, John wanted to pray. He would pray, and yet he would also imagine that Sherlock was sitting at his side, commenting on his prayer and making him laugh. Besides, with all these sinful thoughts he was entertaining, John believed it would be a miracle if God listened to him at all anyway.

~~

John wandered through the castle, assisting with the cleaning of the royal chambers and making sure his clothes had arrived, but he returned to the chapel later that day. He talked to some other servants who were there, happy to demonstrate that he had finally learned the names of some of the regulars of the castle. Yet for the most part he simply enjoyed sitting and feeling the warmth of solace and nostalgia this chapel gave him. A kind man, one with unusual interests and habits, had sat with him in a church much like this one. A man who would openly mock polite aristocrats and take a whiff of a peasant’s shoes.

The last of the other worshippers left, and now John was sitting on the front pew by himself. He closed his eyes, and clasped his hands together. It was a little cold inside the chapel. It made him wish he had changed into his new clothes, but it did not seem right to wear them before they met with William’s approval.

While he thought of his master, John heard the grand doors of the chapel open and close. Resolving to return his attention to prayer, he ignored the newcomer.

Footsteps drew near, and a deep voice distracted John completely. “Is God treating you well, John?” A tall man with dark, curly hair and a wool blue scarf sat next to him on the pew. “He owes you that much.”

John couldn’t believe his eyes. Sherlock was sitting next to him. “Mr. Holmes… Sherlock?”

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to interrupt your prayer. Please,” Sherlock said, taking John’s hands in his own and bringing them back together to form a pious clasp, “I’m sure God was fascinated with what you had to say.” There was no mockery in Sherlock’s voice.

“I, um…” John fought a blush. He was so happy to have Sherlock sitting with him, holding his hands. When Sherlock politely took his touch away, John had to fight the urge to reach back for him.

“I see it is not your family’s situation that concerns you anymore.”

“Oh, well, that’s true enough.” What could John say about his new employment? It would be foolish to tell Sherlock what the man already knew. “I’ve been very lucky,” John said.

Sherlock smiled. “King William is far luckier. I hope he has treated you respectfully?”

John paused. It was sad to think that William could only be in his true self in this way. “Yes, and, really,” it felt more appropriate to say these things to someone who was not his master, “he has been very kind.”

“I am glad to hear that, though I suspect your natural goodness leads you to exaggerate his kindness.”

Flattered, John simpered. “Um, thanks. But you—he—has been so truly kind, and attentive.”

“I wonder if you mean when he sleeps with you,” Sherlock muttered.

It couldn’t be true, but John worried that he had betrayed Sherlock, or had failed him somehow. It was more than a draft in the chapel that made John hold himself, and shiver slightly, but then he saw the worry in Sherlock’s eyes. John said quietly, “I’m fine, don’t give me your coat, again, really.” When he had visited him in that church in John’s town, Sherlock had always been quick to offer the other man his coat when John seemed cold, or even if he did not, because Sherlock had always been a gentleman to him.

“Then I will not.” Sherlock’s arm indeed remained coated, as it suddenly raised itself and brought John into a warm, secure, familiar-feeling head-to-neck hug.

There was only kindness in Sherlock’s voice. “My dear John.” Though he could hardly believe it, John felt long fingers calmly, slowly stroking his upper back. “Does William hold you with this much affection? Does he tell you how important it is that you exist?”

“But…” John could no longer bear the frustration of this absurd mess. “You _are_ King William…”

“I wish I was not! John, do you know what I came across today, what miraculous thing was given to me?”

Bewildered by the sudden question, John shook his head.

“I will tell you. I wished to see how your family was doing, John, and no, do not tell me that I was being selfless, I owed it to them as your friend. Of course King Holloway did not visit them, as a man of such standing cannot be seen with common folk, but _I_ was greeted with much cordiality, and, to my surprise, a letter.”

Shocked, John felt as if he could no longer draw breath. He had forgotten about his letter for Sherlock.

“Can you forgive me, John? You wrote of nothing short of devotion to me. I never knew,” he said, “only imagined. In any case, I have taken you up on your invitation to visit you in the castle.” Sherlock released John slightly, to cup his chin. Their gazes were locked together, and their lips were very close. In a whisper, Sherlock asked, “Is this wrong of me?”

John was not meant to rely on another, to need someone so badly. With William, at least, he could tell himself that he was only serving his master, and he could keep some part of his heart from giving in to false hopes. Now, John was faced with a terrible reality, that he needed Sherlock desperately. “I don’t think you’re wrong.”

“I must be wrong. Sherlock should not exist,” Sherlock said ruefully. He pulled John into an embrace. “Do you know how awful it is when I give in to this side of me?”

John felt the blue scarf against his cheek. “You have to be the perfect lord who puts his country first?”

With a half-nod, Sherlock buried his head into John’s shoulder.

“You, and your brother too, right?”

Sherlock snorted bitterly, in a way that reminded John of William, though there was an unmistakable quaver in the normally confident voice. “Montgomery? He is a failure, he is cowardly and conceited and…” John rubbed Sherlock’s shoulder, and the bitterness fell away. “He was my best friend.”

The scarf was soft against John’s cheek. He thought again of Sherlock as a child, free to carve wood, and of Mycroft sewing whatever he liked. John was sure that the two brothers had meant a lot to each other. He wondered if Sherlock had worn his trademark blue scarf, even as a child... and at that instant, he thought of why Sherlock might always wear this scarf, while William never did.

“Did Mycroft make this scarf for you?” John asked. He was genuinely curious, and he was also optimistic that the use of the elder brother’s nickname would bring Sherlock to a happier place.

Sherlock nodded. “He hasn’t made anything for me in many years. Nothing but this scarf fits me now.”

“How long has it been?”

“My brother officially took over Father’s rule when he was twenty-two years of age, and I was fifteen. Our training for nobility began even earlier than that. Our childish pastimes had to be abandoned. As I am now twenty-eight, I can say that, yes, it has been some time.”

Despite the sorry implication that Sherlock had been distanced from his brother for so long, John chuckled.

Sherlock drew back, surprised. “What is it?”

“You’re really young, aren’t you? Especially for a king!”

“Do you find it amusing that I’m younger than you? I know your exact age, by the way.”

“How could you know that?”

Sherlock smiled. “I learned that and many other things from your charming family.”

“Oh my God, what did they tell you?”

“Little I did not perceive. You will be glad to know that they appreciate all that you have done, for them and for your country.” There seemed to be a personal appreciation in Sherlock’s bright eyes.

“My country,” John said thoughtfully. He had always felt that his family thought him foolish for volunteering for the war.

A sudden melancholy settled on Sherlock’s features. “We all have our duties.” He stood up from the pew. “It has been a pleasure, but I think I’ve been here too long.”

“Oh?” It had been so nice to talk with Sherlock again.

“You won’t tell King Holloway that I snuck into his castle to see his cherished servant, will you?” Sherlock gave him a little smile, and a sly wink.

“Um, no.” John was caught between his bittersweet amusement at Sherlock’s request and the dizzying fact that he had just been deemed William’s cherished servant.

John listened to the door close soundly behind Sherlock as he exited the chapel. He wished that he could have kept holding onto Sherlock. There were so many expectations on his lord’s shoulders that kept William from being happy.

Now that Sherlock was gone, John knew he would need to return to work. It was nearly time for King William to have his supper, so John left the chapel and headed for the kitchen to begin preparations.

He served the food to King William in their usual dining room. In his plush coat and fine cap, William looked as regal as ever. He was calm and composed, the opposite of how John felt inside.

William was again kind enough to allow John to eat with him, though there was a fleeting aspect to his master’s gaze, when before William had looked where he pleased.

“You don’t have to feel so guilty, sir,” John said. It was crazy that he could not address this man as openly as he had in the chapel, but the servant felt no less desire to reassure his friend.

William’s attention remained locked on his food, which he was barely touching. “I will have to be married someday.”

John stopped eating immediately. What was William saying?

“It is required of the lord of the country to lawfully sire a child, lest the land be plunged into chaos after my death.” William plunged his fork into his food more forcefully than necessary. “It would be impossible for me to offer my devotion to someone outside of my station who could not give me children.”

It made much more sense now that this man, in either identity, always carried guilt with him. John had been very fortunate to win Sherlock’s affections, but those affections were not William’s to give. John wasn’t meant for such gifts. But… “I am content to be your servant, m’lord.”

William shot him a questioning glance. “John?”

“I understand that you will have to marry and sire children, but I can… keep you company, until then? Perhaps, even… after?”

“You give your devotion so freely to someone who cannot return it.”

John stood up, scooted his seat back, and knelt next to his master’s seat. The vulnerable show of deference made him blush, but he felt better when he heard William gasp.

“How can you…?”

“I will clean the table for you, sir.” Proving himself through his actions, John went about cleaning the dining table, touched by his master’s silent amazement. He hoped it meant that Sherlock understood his servant would always be loyal to him.

When William retired to his quarters that night, he asked John to his bed without hesitation. John was thrilled when his master laid him down and removed John’s clothing, then his body became relaxed and excited all at once as William took him in his mouth. John breathed heavily, overwhelmed with sweet feelings.

William moaned, and his master’s voyeuristic pleasure made John buck involuntarily. He combed his fingers through William’s hair, clutching more tightly than he meant to, but only spurred to more loss of control with every kind whisper and encouraging touch.

He managed to open his eyes at some point, only because he wished to admire his dear master, and witnessed William touching himself as he satisfied John. It was more than John could bear. His tears were a mixture of passion and love. He cried Sherlock’s name.

William hugged John closely. John felt warmed by the devotion that could not be spoken aloud.

~~

John expected to feel like a new man when he donned his new clothes. These quality garments would show that he was the attendant of an important master, and would at last allow him to belong in King William’s presence.

He straightened out his tunic, clasped his trousers, strapped on his boots, and felt no different.

Perhaps it was true that the clothes were not enough to change the fact that he was a commoner. Or it was possible that all the fine silks surrounding him—he used William’s grand dressing room to clothe himself—diminished the improvement of his own clothing.

It certainly could not be said that his clothes had not been selected with a keen eye. John knew little of the secretive older Holloway brother, but clearly Lord Montgomery could put an outfit together, even if it was one not meant for a nobleman. John hoped that William would appreciate it, but that was wishful thinking, since William owned the magnificent garments in this royal dressing room.

The clothes made him feel no more worthy to inhabit a royal castle, and it was assured that they would not impress the ruler of the castle. At least John had seen to King William’s request to have the clothes ordered in the first place. It made him presentable to visiting dignitaries, if nothing else.

John stepped out of the large dressing room that many could consider a bedchamber in its own right. In the bedroom, King William was sitting in his comfortable chair, shaving away at a wooden cross.

When John had first suggested that Father Lestrade could use a cross, the servant had expected a simple t-shaped block. The object in William’s hands was far more beautiful than that. The elegant cross had been finely detailed. Each end was marked by a flowery shape.

John stepped closer to William, modestly clasping his hands behind his back. “That’s beautiful, sir.”

“Mm,” William hummed, mostly to himself. He was engrossed in his hobby. His attendant’s presence was hardly worth noting.

That was fine with the attendant. William had been very kind to John, so it was all right to be ignored today. To let his king enjoy leisure time alone, John turned to leave the room.

“John?”

His hand reaching for the doorknob, John stopped when he heard his name called in a captivating voice. It was demanding on the surface, yet the pleading tone was unmistakable.

“John… Are you leaving?”

“No, sir,” John said. He returned to his place by King William’s side. William was looking at him, his hands trembling so much that he placed his carving knife on the table, and John was entranced.

William sighed, recollecting himself, and then took his knife back, resuming his careful work. “Thank you, John,” he said quietly. “I need you here.”

John saw that he had made a mistake. His presence had not been ignored by his master—far from it, King William was only able to relax this way because of John.

“I see you have your new clothes,” William remarked. “Lestrade selected well.”

John was tempted to tell his master that the clothes had been chosen by Prince Montgomery, but he did not wish to make William think ill of the clothing. “You approve, sir?”

William wiped shavings of wood from his cross. “I do not disapprove.”

If the clothes met with even an ounce of William’s approval, then the servant felt better after all. He decided he would keep the clothes he had received.

He went to the chest at the foot of the smaller bed he no longer used, in order to store his new clothes with the rest of his belongings. When he opened the chest, a small toy that had been in his possession for years caught his eye. It was a little wooden horse with a rocking base.

That toy was very important to John. He picked it up and placed it on the table, tipping it forward and back with a nostalgic smile. “There’s something about wood,” he said, mostly to himself, but it was nice to think that William might be interested in his thoughts. “It endures after so long.”

“So it does.” William was gracing John with his full attention. In fact, William seemed very interested in the wooden horse. “You touched him up with furniture stain?”

“I thought it would be a nice touch.” Suddenly, William’s words sank in. It was no surprise that he had spotted John’s attempt to take care of his possession, but John had given no indication of the gender of the horse. “How did you know it’s a he?”

William set the small cross and carving knife aside, leaning intently over the horse. “John… You truly have kept it, after all these years…”

Sensing his master’s serious tone, John stopped playing with the horse. “Sir?”

As if he had just remembered where he was, King William blinked at John, then looked away. “Never mind.”

“Have I done something wrong?” Sadly, John touched his treasured wooden keepsake. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be playing with toys.”

Quickly, William turned back to him, his posture still straight and haughty, though his eyes were bright with overwhelming sympathy. “No, I didn’t mean that.” He gave the toy horse a small smile. “You can play with him all you want.”

John smiled sheepishly. His lord was very kind to him. “Thank you, sir.” He could take a few more moments to let the toy remind him of someone he had been able to help. “I’ll put him away in a moment.”

“There’s no reason to put him away.” William stood up, and made to fetch his cloak. “Silver Blaze was meant to be seen.”

Surprised, John asked, “You know his name?” The toy had been a gift from another man, a great man who had served in the war dutifully and bravely. Few times in his life had someone shown him such kindness. John had named the toy himself, after the touch of silver on its forehead.

William donned his tall boots. “You must have mentioned it. Now come, John, I have need for some fresh air.”

Happy to be allowed to accompany King William outside the castle, John followed. William led him down the castle stairs and, and together they walked about the courtyard. Some people went out of their way to show deference to their ruler, but William ignored the nobles and merchants for the most part.

“It is too crowded in these parts,” William noted. “Take a walk with me, John, outside the walls.”

“Are you certain you want to do that?” It was strange to think of King William leaving the castle without armed guards.

“Of course. There is no risk. You will be at my side, won’t you? Fetch a sword from the gatehouse.”

Glad to be of service, John nodded, and quickly found a sword and sheath. Less than three years had passed since the end of the war, and the weight still felt familiar on his hip. He fancied that the weapon complemented his new clothes.

He quickly returned to William, who seemed pleased with the weapon John had chosen. “There’s my soldier,” William murmured, with more than a hint of appreciation.

Feeling proud, John nodded, eager to serve his lord in any way he could.

William guided John to a carriage, and they were driven further into the countryside. It was a long and peaceful drive, during which John was happy to look out the carriage window and marvel at all the responsibility William had to watch over all this land. Eventually, they arrived in a small town unfamiliar to John. After leaving the coachman to relax at a tavern, William headed off with John to walk past the homes and lands belonging to farmers.

Wearing a well-made traveling cloak, William was clearly a nobleman, but one could not tell any more than that. Nevertheless, John was careful to look out for any undesirable characters, though it was a bright day and most people they saw were busy working or playing in their fields.

“This is nice,” John said, contented by the simple act of walking with William and admiring the calm scenery with him.

“Yes, it is.”

“I wish we could do this more often.” Then it occurred to John, why William may not have ventured outside with him before. “Now that I have new clothes, perhaps, we could take more walks?”

William scoffed. “Your new clothes don’t make you any more presentable than your old ones did.”

“Oh.” John was not sure if that was good or bad.

“But there is something agreeable about seeing that sheath on your belt,” William said quietly.

Pleased, John squared his shoulders, prepared to defend his master at a moment’s notice.

“You served in the war, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As a soldier, but more as a healer.”

John nodded. At the time, he had always carried rudimentary medical supplies in his knapsack. Plenty of strong men had volunteered to be soldiers, but there were hardly any healers at hand. He liked to think that he had aided his fellow countrymen, though they had rarely shown the simple apothecary any gratitude.

As they walked down the road, a grassy field appeared on the right. It was wild land, with no fences around it.

John pictured walking through the grass with King William, and the idea struck him as romantic and beautiful. “Can we walk through the grass, sir?”

William glanced at the dirty grass hesitantly. He was surely above such a childish action.

John stretched and looked at the clouds thoughtfully, wishing that William would feel comfortable acting however the nobleman wished. “Sherlock would walk through the grass with me,” he muttered hopelessly.

Like lightning, William whipped around to stare him down, making John flinch.

John’s frightened response was just as fast. “I’m sorry.”

“I am not Sherlock.”

Frantically, John nodded. “Yes, of course, sir.”

William said nothing more. He kept walking. Silently, John followed him, ashamed for having upset his master.

He was supposed to be making King William feel better. The hopes he carried of comforting his master could never be satisfied if he could not alleviate his lord’s shame. But the king seemed so furious, and John could think of nothing that would make up for his own insensitive outburst.

They walked down the quiet road, and returned to the tavern where their carriage awaited. King William crisply informed the coachman that he was ready to return to the castle. They set off without further delay, William wordlessly taking his seat opposite his anxious servant.

John longed to console his master, but he could do nothing other than keep himself from saying anything more that would make William unhappy.

The soft, redeeming tones of his master’s voice broke the silence of the carriage. “John. You are sitting far away from me.”

Uncertain, John wavered on his seat. It did not seem possible that William would want John to be any closer.

“I suppose I will have to move closer to you,” William said. He closed the shutters over the small windows. Gracefully, he moved to sit on John’s lap, and slowly brought his arms around his attendant. “I’m sorry, John.”

Before he could stop himself, John kept his master close to him with one arm, and touched William’s dark hair with his other hand. Only when he had done it did he remember that he was the one who submitted to William, and he worried that William would be angry. Nervously, John stammered, “S-Sir…”

William’s eyes fluttered closed. He tipped his head slightly back, leaning into John’s touch. “The trained hands of an apothecary,” he murmured. William now allowed the servant to fully support his master’s weight. “The strong arms of a soldier. You are magnificent, John.”

He kissed John, slowly at first, then more tenderly and deeply when John moaned.

“Sh,” William whispered against John’s lips, “don’t let the coachman hear you.” He then slipped his tongue into John’s mouth, claiming his devoted servant.

John’s spirit felt light inside. Now he had another chance to comfort his master, and what an agreeable chance it was. Though he needed to think of a way to help Sherlock accept himself, John’s thoughts were powerfully drawn to all the kind, loving things that King William might be saying to him now if he could.

~~

William was wearing his dressing gown when he drew the curtains, abating the dim light from the stars above and torches below. “I won’t have you come to my bed tonight.”

“Oh?” John said, concerned. He wore his sleeping gown, and had just brushed his hair. It was a silly thing to do before bed, yet he wanted to look his best for William. “Are you sure?”

The nobleman said nothing. Of course, his statement had been clear, and there was no need to repeat himself. Stifling a sigh, John resigned himself to his own bed, the smaller of the two though still comfortable. He was sorry to see William take to his own bed without John, pulling the sheer curtains around the royal bed, shutting himself in.

John sat on his blanket, patting the forgotten fabric. He had shared King William’s bed for so many nights that his personal bed was unfamiliar. He wished he could be in his usual place by William’s side. Why did William want to sleep alone today? Perhaps his lord was not in the mood for any intimacy tonight, but didn’t William know that John would be happy just to lie next to his master?

The solitary sheets under John were too lonely for him. It seemed like a place better suited for pining than for sleep. With a silent frown, John chastised himself for how terribly dependent he must have grown on William if he could not manage to lie alone. John stood up from the bed to look through his chest of belongings, seeking out his toy wooden horse. Holding it to his chest, he climbed back onto his bed, and lied down once more.

The toy could not replace William’s company, but it provided company of a sort, and it reminded John of a time when someone had returned kindness to him. The toy was the gift of a soldier who had been badly wounded, so much that he was bedridden for weeks and nearly all his face had been covered in bandages. John had treated that soldier, sat by him when he could, and talked to him, though the conversations had been rather one-sided. The soldier had been too weak to talk.

In the end, the soldier had been taken away when John was not present, and the apothecary had not had the change to say goodbye. Some men with impressive insignia had informed him that they had been looking for that soldier for a long time, and now that they had found him, the man had been brought to a facility that could properly treat a son of nobility. John was more than a little offended, but what mattered was the soldier’s health, and after the care John had provided, he was certain recovery would soon be complete no matter where the soldier was brought.

Afterward, John found the small wooden horse in the medical bag he had left by his patient. It had been a wonderful gift.

That soldier had left him, and now William kept him away, but John would always have this horse. He clutched the toy close, and shut his eyes tightly, fending off tears.

His eyes went wide when he heard himself weep, and he tried to silence himself immediately. It would be terrible if he woke William this way. But loneliness was overwhelming him, making him long so much to be loved by the man in the other bed, and John had to turn his face into his pillow, to muffle his sobs.

He hated himself when he heard a tentative, “John?” It was William. John heard his lord step closer to John’s bed. “John. My beautiful John, why do you cry?”

The servant’s heart was breaking inside. William sounded so sweet, and it made John miss his close presence even more. To hold back the deluge of his solitude and offer his lord a response at the same time was infeasible, and he only trembled, burying himself further into his sheets.

“I’m sorry, John,” William murmured, giving John terrible hope by offering such gentle pity. “I was afraid I’ve been asking too much of you—that you might appreciate a night alone. I see now that I was wrong.”

William did not touch John, or come very close to where he was lying. Still turned away, John did not know what emotion may have passed over his lord’s face, but the servant suddenly recalled the reason that William was not approaching. He had said that this would always be John’s domain.

John didn’t want a domain that was separate from William. “I’m lonely, sir.” He took a deep breath. If he was to transgress his rights and make a request of his lord, he certainly ought to say it with unbroken words. “Would you join me, please?”

Slowly, William sat down next to John, and gradually lied down on his side, resting his hand on John’s back so he could stroke his servant gently. “Give me what you are holding, if you would.”

John didn’t know how William knew he was holding something, but his master had always been a perceptive man. He weakly surrendered the toy horse.

William’s gasped when he saw it was the horse that John had been holding. He took the toy in hand. “I never thought this could mean so much to you. I promise, I’ll set him down carefully.” He placed the horse on the ground at the side of the bed, and then turned back to John, gracing the servant with so much warm attention. He turned John to him and held the shorter man to him, kissing John’s forehead, letting tears be wept against his dressing gown.

It was soothing, his lord’s closeness. John saw too late that he was dirtying William’s clothes with snot and tears. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s all right.” William smiled. “It is the least I could do after you saved my life.”

John hardly thought he had ever performed such a service for his noble employer.

William traced his fingers over the collar of his attendant’s sleeping gown, and slid his touch under the garment, caressing the nape of John’s neck, making John, who had become too weak to stop himself from enjoying it, shudder from the pleasant sensation. “I had been very reckless in battle,” William said, “to let myself be injured so severely. I had not cared much for life, and I did not care at all if I survived. Then I was brought to a kind healer who sent my pain scurrying away.”

The pieces started to fall into place in John’s mind. He wondered, could this true? There were countless noblemen in the country, and many wood-carvers too. How could this be?

“He did so much more than heal my wounds. He spoke to me, banishing my apathetic thoughts with every word, occupying my mind with stories. One story he told me was a mystery, involving a horse with a silver mark on its forehead. He constructed the tale, and let me solve it.”

John could hardly breathe, and it was not because of the soft dressing gown against his face. His mind reeled through his memories, trying to remember all that he could of the soldier he had treated. He had been wounded by a sword in the arm. Didn’t William have a scar in the same place?

“He couldn’t stay with me all the time, but then I could carve something inspired by his story, knowing that he would know its name. Oh, my healer had treated me and generously shared his time with me, comforting a common soldier with his gentle tone. He did not know I was a nobleman, and still he cared so much for me. It was my pleasure to thank that kind man with a gift.”

It seemed that there would be a few tears more to fall from John’s eyes.

“I remembered all the details that told me where he lived, and I found him years later,” William said softly, “praying in a church.”

“Sherlock…” John thought of the enchanting man who bantered with him in the pews, offering insights with his sharp wit, perceiving all that John had done by the dirt on his shoes.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time.” Despite the presence of a force more bereft than amusement in his voice, Sherlock chuckled. “It was very bad of me, to sit in a holy house with a dear friend who meant more to me than holiness would allow.”

John was astounded that he had such an effect on his friend, even then. To think that Sherlock loved him… Needing to be as close to William as possible, John flung an arm around him, noticing a surprised little intake of breath when a simple long nightshirt met a stained but still exquisite dressing gown…

Oh! John felt a stiff bulge of fabric touching his hips.

“Oh my God…”

“John, I’m sorry, I did not—”

“You desire me?” John asked, embarrassed. “But I’m s-sobbing and gross, m’lord!”

“It is nothing, pay it no mind.” Almost helplessly, William added quietly, “May I keep holding you?”

With an abashed smile, John nodded. He was worn out from crying, too exhausted to act on excitement, and William was very calming and soft. They were over the blanket, but the blanket would not have given John the warmth he wanted anyway. He touched the sash of William’s dressing gown. “Can I undo this, sir?”

Surprised, William answered, “If you wish.”

John opened the dressing gown, so he could rest fully on William’s bare chest. The heat and closeness of his master made everything better. But William’s remaining underwear kept John from feeling the rest of him. And that intimate part of William seemed so hard. John fancied it would be hot to the touch. John rested his hands on that hindering piece of clothing, and gave a small tug in question.

William closed his eyes. “My love, yes,” he whispered, imploringly.

Full of gratitude, John slipped the briefs down, and sensed his loneliness drifting away as he felt the length of William’s body against his own thin nightgown. William was as hot as he had imagined, and it was sweetly sedative. It was kind of his master to grant him this.

“John,” William choked.

“Mmm,” John sleepily replied. His eyelids were becoming heavy.

Now it was William, John noticed, who was trembling. The noble lord grunted in an obvious effort to control himself, but then William thrust once against John’s thigh. “Oh, sorry…”

Filled with contentment, John lifted his leg, lifting his gown up as well, and closed his thighs around William’s need, as King William had done for him one lovely morning.

William cried out in passion, and John felt his master surrender himself to thrusting in earnest. It gave the weary servant a blissful sensation of warmth in his abdomen and his heart. By William’s ardent yet tender rhythm, John was being rocked to sleep.

Half-asleep and terrifically happy, John muttered, “I love you, Sherlock.”

“My kind John,” William breathed, his voice deep and longing, “I need you, I need you, I’m so sorry, I’ll make this up to you, I promise.”

“You feel nice,” John assured him softly, though it only seemed to make William’s heavy breaths even shakier. Possibly to keep himself from being much louder, William kissed John’s neck with an almost hungry desire, and it made John feel wanted and wonderful.

The last thing John felt before he fell asleep was William’s muffled cry against John’s shoulder and a hot, loving release coating the devoted servant between his thighs.

He wished that he could use that gift to make a baby so that William would never leave him for someone else.

Knowing at least that he had William’s love for now, John slept peacefully, warmed by the protective arms around him.


	2. Chapter 2

He owed John so much. That kind man had once been a charming memory that had provided no small measure of comfort to William over the years. He had thought of John often, remembering the stories that his healer had shared with him while his father granted yet another distinction to Lord Montgomery, and more recently, when the burdens of directing a kingdom soured William’s mood.

The king would never be content with his lot, it seemed, if he was to be unhappy with or without his power. All that made him happy was John.

He had not seen John since that morning—blessed as the king was to wake next to his servant, who was so handsome in sleep with his beautiful mussed hair and peaceful expression, William had needed to attend a meeting too early to watch John wake in turn. Today had been a particularly long day, spent listening to the grievances of landowners from the rich part of the city, and one of them had been a tax-averse lawyer, no less.

That had not been the worst part of it. A noble who was invested in many concerns in the city had visited the king afterward. The gentleman had been nothing but polite, though he had been overly so, because the purpose of the visit was to insinuate to the king that the nobleman had a nubile daughter who had been approached by a number of fair suitors and who would surely be a worthy partner for any great lord.

William knew that his kingdom expected him to marry. This had not been the first time that a marriageable daughter had been purposefully mentioned in his presence. He also knew that he would have to return that interest someday. His kingdom would fall into chaos if he left no heir. But he had some time to wait until then.

As William was sorting his papers, his day’s work accounted for, he inquired after John’s whereabouts of a maid who was to clean the office. She replied that she had seen John speaking to Father Lestrade in the chapel. Whatever they had discussed, she said, their conversation had been animated indeed.

William might have been jealous if he did not know the priest. Probably John had gone to the priest to seek counsel as William himself had done in the past. Lestrade was one of few individuals who had the king’s trust. Was it not because of Lestrade, after all, that William had John by his side at last?

As he remembered sending Lestrade on that fortuitous errand, William’s mind threatened to wander elsewhere, to the endless touch of rain and the muddy grass under his boots, to lettings things escape his mouth that should never be said in the presence of the holy man standing next to him in the countryside. The priest who had been entrusted with the confessions of kings knew things of William that could have him destroyed.

Montgomery had been prudent to tell William years ago that he should lie when in confession. Give no weakness away that would give the priest power over him. But then, William never listened to Montgomery anyway.

Of course, Lestrade did not know everything, and he would only be able to guess at why John was being summoned away from their conversation. William gave his orders crisply to the maid, and she went off in a flash.

When William returned to his personal quarters, John was dutifully present. He had been sitting on the king’s bed but stood at attention when William arrived. It was evening, and dark. The light of several candles bathed John in an alluring glow.

John’s head was bent with deference, and his hands were clasped behind his back. “Evening, m’lord.”

It took him several moments to take in the sight before him. John was dressed in his tailored clothing. He was glowing with kindness. William let his admiration show plainly. “Did you have a pleasant day, John?”

A hint of surprise passed over John’s face, but he schooled himself quickly to a servile respectfulness. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“I am very interested in hearing more.” William stepped closer and placed his hands on John’s shoulders. The king’s heart stuttered when he saw the awe in his servant’s eyes. He wanted John to know how treasured he was.

“I do not mean to impose,” John said, “but I wonder if you could deduce what I did this day? I mean, can you figure it out?”

William smiled wide, though he reined himself in somewhat when he thought about how foolish he was being. To be so affected by John’s simple request, really! Willing himself to be calm and focused, William took another careful look at John’s person. He lifted one of John’s arms and inspected the hand—one could usually tell what John had been up to by the state of his hands, as multiply talented with them as his attendant was. He saw no stains, but that in itself was informative. He leaned down and inhaled deeply over John’s wrist, catching the sign of a scent.

Feeling for any other clues, William traced his fingers down John’s arm, but when he touched the wrist, he felt his dear servant’s pulse, which spoke of a wonderful excitement. It made William falter for a moment, as he could not resist glancing back at John’s lovely face. John was enraptured in watching William at work.

William allowed himself a few moments to adore that face.

“Sir,” John murmured, “do you wish to inspect my boots, as well?”

A little flame burst inside William’s chest. Oh, to be the man who could throw royal propriety to the wind and sniff whatever part of John that John allowed him to! He was not Sherlock, but it was hard for William to care about that at this moment. The king dropped to his knees, and lifted one of John’s feet, enjoying how John touched him to keep balance.

Once he had investigated enough, William stood. One final test was necessary. He wrapped his arms around John, and kissed his dear servant. John moaned, loudly at first from surprise, then with a longing for more, and William was happy to kiss him deeply, devotedly.

John tasted wonderful. Reluctantly, William pulled away, taking a few breaths to become reacquainted with air. John did the same, smiling in such a grateful way that William longed to take him to bed at once.

“You visited a lady,” William declared, “on the request of Father Lestrade, no doubt. She is pregnant, and far enough along to be making use of a lying-in room. This is her first pregnancy, so she reacted with more concern than she otherwise would have to a headache. Certainly she is entitled to react in such a manner, though I see she is fine after all, is she not?”

John’s inspiring smile filled William with pride. “Yes, you’re right, sir. How did you know all that?”

“You have the sweet scent of freshly-cut grass, of the rush plant to be more precise. At first I thought you might have been making rushlights, but there would be no reason to use grass for lighting when there are candles in this keep. In any case, you are an apothecary, and a man of herbs must know that rushes are brought to a lying-in room, for a woman nearing her delivery.”

“You are familiar with herbs?” John asked, sounding genuinely pleased.

“Not as familiar as I could be,” William stated, “though I would make great improvements if I had a tutor to educate me.” It was charming how John flushed with giddiness at that sentiment. “I detected a sweet spice on you as well—coriander. It may have been added to your meal, but,” and now William could not resist blushing, licking his lips, “you tasted faintly of fruit instead.”

John smiled, embarrassed. It was as adorable as it was enticing.

“I have been given coriander for a fever, so I know that it has that medicinal purpose. Indeed, the woman must have thought herself very ill if she allowed a man’s presence in her lying-in room. But it seems she is well. John, your mood is very telling. You are of a generous disposition, and you would be troubled if she was in a dire state.”

“Terrific, sir, but how did you know that Father Lestrade asked me to help her?”

“I admit that I had heard of you conversing with him, but,” William was quick to add, “a woman with a lying-in room is a woman of nobility, and it seemed doubtful that you would personally know any such women. The priest meets with all sorts of company and is in the best position to bring you where you are needed.”

John asked, “Did you learn anything from my feet?”

William grinned. “Your shoes confirmed that the rushes and coriander were used in an herbal capacity, and that you did not merely come across them in a garden, otherwise there would be much more dirt and mud present. There was a similar dearth of clues on your arm. I would see a great deal of evidence there if you had actually assisted in a childbirth, which told me that your patient is still expecting.”

“You make it sound so easy,” John murmured.

William was deeply touched. “I merely observed,” he said, though he could not keep his tender feelings out of his voice. “But my dear John, there are some things I do not know.” He pulled the sheer curtain around his bed apart so that he could climb onto it. “Join me?”

Eagerly, John joined him on the bed, sitting demurely, ready to do as William asked. “What would you like me to do?”

“I want you,” William murmured, “to tell me about your day.” He started undressing John, taking off the man’s boots, his tunic, and with his kind permission, every other piece of clothing.

“You know it already, sir,” John said, his voice a little deeper.

“Tell me how you felt.” William did away with John’s underwear, and lightly kissed the male member that was freed, watching the little jump of need and appreciating the pleased shudders John made. “What made you sad? What made you happy?”

John took a deep breath. “Sir…”

William was disrobing himself now. He was filled with a self-conscious uncertainty and a vulgar thrill at the same time when John’s gaze was upon him. William had not noticed that he was hard with desire until it caught John’s attention. The nobleman worried anxiously about what John would think.

“Well,” John answered softly, “I’m really happy right now, King William.”

Relieved, William brought John’s hands up around his own neck so that John would have an anchor to hold on to. Feeling John’s arms and seeing the deep need in John’s eyes was incredible. It made William yearn to gratify him in every way he could.

“I w-was happy,” John stammered somewhat under the close attention, “to help someone.

William nudged John’s legs to part slightly, and then thrust between John’s thighs. John gasped, and closed his eyes peacefully, ready to be of service by being a toy that William rubbed himself against, but that was not exactly what William had in mind. He positioned himself so that he would slide against a very taut, sensitive part of his servant’s warm anatomy, drinking in John’s beautiful whimpers as he did.

Reflexively, John’s arms tightened around William. “Oh, m’lord, I wished I could be like her.” John pushed his thighs tightly together around William while the king found his rhythm.

William cried out, overwhelmed by making love to John this way, rubbing his beloved John with each thrust. He was captivated by John’s heat, of the understated strength of his legs.

John was incredible, his head tipped back and his mouth open in a cry of pleasure. He writhed under William when the servant’s hardening length rubbed against the king’s stomach. “I wish I could… Oh, sir… I want to bear your child…”

William kissed his John again. Loving John so intimately made him burn everywhere, consumed with a desperate need to be with John forever.

At the end of the night, when his dear John was sleeping soundly, William knew he was bound to the man whose stomach he was stroking gently. The royal heart in William’s chest could be given to no other. But he could not fail his kingdom either.

What was he to do?

~~

Lestrade! Lestrade was the answer, of course, how could he not have thought of it sooner? But that man was impossible to find in this castle! It seemed that everyone else knew where the priest was, and if this issue was not of a confidential nature, then William could simply order a servant to send a message through unimportant channels to Lestrade. However, considering the extremely sensitive nature of the issue, William was required to speak to Lestrade in person.

The priest was not in the chapel, the first obvious place to search. It seemed that the hours he spent in the chapel coincided with those of William’s own tedious meetings. Lestrade was neither in the kitchen nor in any of the adjoining supply rooms. He was not in the cellar, nor in the courtyard, nor in the dining room. The castle’s inhabitants of various stations looked on in curiosity as their lord wordlessly peered about each area and continued on. They could not possibly know that William was looking for Lestrade, or that he always had such difficulty in locating the priest.

The option remained to wait until weekly services to talk to Lestrade, as the priest would have no choice but to be in the chapel at that time. Unfortunately, being present for services would attract too much attention, as King William had never bothered with an appearance before.

Asking others where Lestrade was would also arouse too much suspicion. Ah, but he could ask John. John was a religious, God-fearing man who certainly kept a rapport with the priest.

William returned to his beloved John, who had been hanging clothes on a line in the courtyard, and who had been one of the individuals who had looked on with curiosity as William had searched. John’s face brightened handsomely when the king approached once again.

John was respectfully quiet, too polite to intrude on a continuing search with even a greeting, until he saw that William was indeed approaching him. “Can I help you, m’lord?”

His dear attendant was such a kind man. “Do you know where I may find Lestrade?”

Recognition rose in John’s eyes, and then instantly, there was a spike of some other emotion, possessing a character of anxious reluctance. “Is there something you need the Father to do? Could I do it for you instead?”

“I require Lestrade.”

“Ah, yes, sir,” John said humbly, turning his gaze to the tunic he was hanging on the line. “I can save you the trouble, and tell him what you want him to do?”

This gave William pause, which seemed to make John focus all the more sharply on his tunic. Lestrade’s whereabouts must be controversial indeed for John to act this way. William’s beloved servant had never before questioned him, even in this meek and gentle fashion.

A strong desire rose in William to hold his gentle beloved’s hands, which were trembling just perceptibly as they fiddled with a fastening. The noble lord doubted that it was the priest himself who distressed John, so his distress must have been on account of the little act of defiance that the mention of the priest had necessitated.

There was nobody else present in the courtyard. Had there been anyone, William would have dismissed them without a care for explanation. He loved to be alone with John. He could give his servant all his attention. William eased John’s hands away from the line and into his own grasp, appreciating the startled breath that escaped his servant.

“Sir?” John murmured.

“I have a vital request for Lestrade,” William said. “I am going to ask him to give our baby to us.”

John was dumbfounded, visibly repeating what William had said in his mind. “A baby?”

“Yours and mine.”

“How…?”

“Wayward infants end up in the care of priests in one way or another, I’m sure.”

Despite his astonishment, John chuckled, a joyous, welcome sound. “You think somebody is going to leave a baby in a basket at Father Lestrade’s feet?”

“ _Our_ baby, John. We must wait until after our wedding to reveal the baby, of course.”

John was staring wide-eyed at him, all gestures of polite deference forgotten. “I’m sorry, what did just you say?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I must be married to have an heir. I hope that wearing a veil is acceptable to you, and a dress, I should add. Such a disguise will be sufficient from afar, especially as the priest will be our confederate.”

In disbelief, and with a growing smile, John whispered, “My God.”

William was deeply relieved to see John’s smile. “Carrying on with that facade would prove too troublesome for a long period of time, so as soon as we have acquired our baby, I will announce the unfortunate event of the queen’s death from childbirth. If, in my grief, I should need the comfort of my attendant once again at my bedside, none in this castle shall question it.”

“No, not in the least,” John declared, now it was his hands that covered William’s. “Of course he’ll stay by your side!”

It was rare to see his precious servant so forthright, though it was becoming less rare. William would do anything for John, and trust him with anything. If John needed to act in William’s stead, then that was acceptable. “You will speak to Lestrade for me, then?”

John nodded briskly, and though William had tried to speak lightly, his servant still retained some of the formality associated with receiving a command, retracting his arms back to his sides. Yet John was smiling. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

William had no words for how delightful John’s agreement was, considering how many things he had just agreed to. However, there was one more request to add. “While you are speaking with the good priest, would you mind giving him this?” William retrieved the small carved cross from his pocket and held it before John.

He was gratified by John’s awed gaze. “It’s beautiful,” he said. The intricate designs had taken some time to craft. It had been marvellous to exert his focus into the task, as he rarely had the opportunity to simply sit and carve. “Incredible, m’lord.”

John treasured the wooden horse of their past as well. If John continued to warmly praise the fruits of this hobby, then it would be remarkably possible for William to pursue it further.

The cross was carefully taken. “I will be off at once then, sir.”

“Just a moment,” William said, touching John’s shoulder without any real force, but keeping his loyal servant there nonetheless. William did enjoy his servant’s company so dearly, and John’s task could wait. “Tell me a story before you depart.”

Probably without consciously intending to, John looked at William’s arm, where he had been injured those years ago. It was the gaze of a man who wished to soothe and heal. “As m’lord wishes,” John said, his voice matching the comforting power of his eyes.

William listened with rapt attention. With nothing more than those words John possessed all that William was, and the servant did not seem to even be aware of his power.

Still holding the cross closely, John humbly guided his lord to a bench, where they sat down together.

Soon, William was taken under John’s power as John told him mysteries that engaged his mind. It was incredible to be under John’s influence in such a way. William longed to give himself to his healer. He wanted his storyteller to entrance him with tales of excitement, danger, victory, of all kinds of stories.

He wished that John would guide his lord away to a more secluded place. William would follow him loyally, to the grand bedroom, to the bed they shared. His healer would tell him another story that would capture William’s imagination, leaving him dazed with wonder and acquiescent to the unremitting physical love of his servant.

A shiver passed through William, but it was only of excited, buoyant sentiment. How exciting it was to think of his kind John this way. Could John wish to take on such a role with him?

“Are you all right, sir?” John asked, concerned. He must have noticed his master’s shiver.

“Perfectly,” William replied.

“Would you like to hear another story? I know one of a diabolical hound that stalks the moors at night.”

That certainly sounded remarkable, but William knew that if he allowed John to stay and fascinate him any longer, then the temptation to sit companionably with his servant in this courtyard for the rest of the day would become too great. “I shall enjoy hearing of it some other time.”

“Yes, right.” John stood up, cross in hand and message in heart. “Do you think Father Lestrade will be understanding?”

“I think he will be.” Really, their case was nothing very different from what King William had admitted in confession in times past. “In any case,” William added with a touch of amusement, “the cross might make a fair inducement.”

John laughed, intensifying William’s temptation to a still greater level. “It’s a brilliant bribe, m’lord.”

Then John bowed, filling his master with a host of indecipherable feelings, and left him, into the castle where apparently Lestrade was hidden. It occurred to William that he could follow John to discover where the elusive priest had gone. That step was unnecessary, though. John was a reliable attendant who would take care of his master’s request.

William could scarcely believe his good fortune. John had agreed to his plans, and if Lestrade agreed to assist them, then William could marry his beloved. He could raise the heir of the kingdom with the greatest man he had ever known. He adored the thought of such a life with John.

He pondered about the mysteries he had been told, but more than anything, his mind was occupied by the inappropriate scenes that it had conjured moments previously. He thought of John, and how he might take him to bed. Of all the ways he could share his love for John, how many would his servant allow?

The king stood up from the bench, studied the clothes hanging on the line with interest, and took from the arrangement a coat that was dry enough. Sherlock had to run a few errands today. There was no doubt that the lord of the kingdom could not be seen seeking the items he wished to acquire.

~~

When William returned to his castle, in his formally guised self, he was surprised to find Lestrade waiting for him, outside of the king’s private quarters. The priest had lived in hiding before, but now without being sought he appeared.

“Good evening, King William,” Lestrade said in an official manner, his hands clasped stiffly in front of his priestly cassock. There was a small wooden cross hanging from his neck.

Oh dear, was Lestrade intending to express gratitude for that trifle? William was not sure he could manage such a response, so he hoped to prevent it. Leaning towards his door with impatience, he asked, “Do you have urgent matters to discuss, Lestrade?”

A moment’s silence passed, then Lestrade’s gaze turned a little more bravely toward William, and the priest seemed somehow more formidable than before. “I do,” he said.

This was about more than the cross, then. It was possible that John told Lestrade about William’s plans, though there were a number of other issues that might be bothering the priest. “Is it a serious matter?” William asked.

“I would say so.”

The priest had given his ear freely to William more times than the king could count. Though part of that was in the priest’s regular duties, there had always been a concern in Lestrade for the sovereign that transcended professional obligation. In fact, considering the petulant demands and damning confessions, there must have been something powerful that kept Lestrade in the service of the exacting king.

William watched Lestrade’s hands tighten with a tense apprehension, and knew that whatever subject bothered the priest was a very serious one. Certainly the king could spare a little of his time for Lestrade.

“We may talk in my quarters,” William decided. If this was a sensitive matter, they did not need to discuss it where guards could hear them.

It was too early for sleep, so if John had been here he would have been warned by the sounds of Lestrade in the hall, but upon entering his rooms William saw that his beloved servant was not home at the moment. William missed his presence, though he held no doubt that John would be in these quarters by the end of the night.

In the meantime, William owed someone his attention. “You were saying, Lestrade?”

“Well, sir, John told me you were looking for me today,” Lestrade began earnestly. The stark politeness of the hallway had given way to a much more personable priest. “To give me this cross—thank you, by the way, truly.”

William hurried past that token of appreciation. “You are not an easy man to find.”

“Considering where I was, it’s no wonder you didn’t find me.” Though Lestrade seemed to attempt a little smile, his tone was deliberate, and maybe sad. “Sir, I think it’s time I tell you where I’ve been.”

William did not see why this was so important, but he nodded. He sat in his chair, directed Lestrade to take the other seat next to him, and waited.

Doing as he was bid, Lestrade forged on. “It has to do with Prince Montgomery.”

The king’s good will dissipated away, his entire being set ill at ease.

Lestrade must have noticed, because his hands rose in supplication. “Look, I know your brother is a sore subject for you, but I must speak to you about him.”

“There is nothing to be said.” William’s voice sounded lifeless to his own ears. “Nothing at all,” he muttered, and now all he heard was bitterness.

There was a time when the weight of the kingdom had not rested on William’s shoulders. Montgomery was fortunate to be as weak-willed as he was. Nobody had any expectations for the older Holloway brother anymore. That man could hardly handle such responsibility.

These days, Montgomery could hardly be bothered to leave his personal rooms. William had shared not a word with his brother in a year at least, and even then it must have been a passing greeting, grudgingly given when there was company about.

In any case, William comprehended the implication of Lestrade had said, though the king could not fathom why Lestrade had wasted his time in Montgomery’s presence. “You were in _his_ company?”

Lestrade sighed, and slowly, he said, “My lord, I’ve devoted most of my time to his company for these two years of your reign.”

William couldn’t believe what he heard. It took him a remarkably long time to notice his mouth was open in surprise. It snapped shut, only to shout, “Lestrade!”

“I’m his priest as well as yours!”

“He’s an arrogant, cowardly fool!”

“No more than you!” Somewhere between the hall and these chairs, Lestrade must have forgotten that William was the priest’s sovereign. “Do you even know of the work Prince Montgomery still does for this land? Sorting through the trade records, accounting for the army’s expenses, all that rot. He plants himself behind his desk and does all the little things that are too boring for you to do.”

William should have had Lestrade cast out of his keep for this insolence, and yet the king was the one who was struggling now. “That’s… My advisors do those things. Montgomery was deemed below the affairs of the kingdom long ago.”

Lestrade shook his head. He spoke more calmly, but no less deliberately. “Why do you think he does it in secret?”

“Montgomery… He’s a coward for not fighting in battle… He’s a disappointment…” The biting words were starting to fail him.

“That’s not true. He didn’t fight in the war like you did, I know, but he worked day and night to put that conflict to an end. Granted, he never liked the meetings, and he’s more than a little relieved that he doesn’t have to make any speeches anymore, but he manages this country behind the scenes pretty well, don’t you think?”

William clung to the possibility that none of this was true. “You presume to know much about him, Lestrade.” Even if the priest had spent some company with Montgomery, it was difficult to imagine anything more than a few words awkwardly exchanged. “He couldn’t have confessed any of this to you.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

“You wouldn’t be able to divulge it to me. And Montgomery made his disapproving view of confessing to a priest very clear to me in the past. He wouldn’t have told you anything.”

“Maybe he changed his mind about that,” Lestrade said, mostly to himself in a soft voice, and then continued, directly to William, “and in any case, he didn’t tell me this in confession. Well, maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this anyway, but it seemed right to tell you now…”

Waiting less than patiently, William crossed his arms.

“When John gave me this cross, Lord Montgomery was present, and, before I tell you what happened, I have to assure you that it wasn’t John’s fault.”

William’s precious servant could never be at fault. “Of course,” he said proudly.

“Prince Montgomery… Pardon me if I say so, but something came over him. I know because he reached for his umbrella before he stood, and that’s a rare thing.”

“His umbrella? Are you sure?” The king sounded steadier than his shocked state should have allowed. William had never thought it possible that his brother would have held onto it. “Was it made of wood?”

“Well, yeah, the body of the thing is wood, but that’s not the important part, now is it? He looked at John and the cross in his hands, and he knew then it was something you made for me. I don’t fully understand it myself, but I think he was as touched as I was.” Lestrade smiled. “He asked me to come thank you.”

Montgomery would not pass such a cordial sentiment along. There had to be some mistake. “He was joking, surely.”

“Not a chance. He wanted me to come round right away. I figured that was the closest thing to a peace offering I was going to get from him,” Lestrade said with a shrug. “It’s well past time you two made up, anyway.”

As William played the events in his head, a possibility occurred to him. “Lestrade.”

“Yes?” The priest was interested, unbothered by the king’s monotone. Only Lestrade could question William so thoroughly and not worry about his place in the castle.

“Where is John.” It was definitely more of a statement than a question.

“He’s still with Montgomery, I suppose.”

William made to bolt to the door, but Lestrade, tougher than William thought a priest ought to be, caught the arm of the king, who ought to have been stronger for having been a soldier. Lestrade held him with all the force of his natural obstinacy. “Release me!” William demanded.

“The last thing anyone needs right now is for you to go and barge in there, yelling at one of them.”

“Do you seriously think I would yell at John? Now let me go at once.”

“I will, but promise me you won’t storm into the room and make a scene.”

William humphed. “Fine. But I must know that my John is well.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “This is absurd. You know as well as I do that Montgomery wouldn’t hurt a fly.” He released his hold on William’s arm. “Go, and go and see how fine it all is.”

At a full run, unconcerned for any who saw their monarch dashing through the halls, William made his way to a vaguely familiar part of the castle. There were no guards to bother him here, and he slowed down, carefully approaching Montgomery’s doors. There was usually a reasonable sense about what Lestrade said.

Strangely, the doors had been left open, which was very unusual for either Holloway brother. He heard the voices of men conversing inside.

“The clasp in the front can be tricky,” one of the men said. It startled William, because it was his brother’s voice, and yet it was speaking in the gentle, unassuming way that William had not heard in a long time. “Try not to snag anything in it.”

He heard John chuckle—his kind John. “I think I’ll manage.”

William leaned against the wall, and slumped there, letting the world pull him to the ground.

“Now that I see it on you, I think that gloves of the same shade would match well. I could make you a pair.”

“That’s much too generous, sir! I’m very happy with this cloak. But, um, I think Father Lestrade would like to have a pair.”

Mycroft paused, evidently taking in this information. “That’s very interesting.”

“He’s been rubbing his hands a bit in the chapel.”

“I believe he has a pair of gloves, but I see the problem. He needs his hands to turn the pages of the book, no doubt. John, do you think he would use fingerless gloves?”

“Sure, I think that’s a great idea.”

William listened to this entirely civil conversation between his brother and his beloved with astonishment. What had happened to Montgomery? Didn’t Mycroft know he wasn’t allowed to be here?

He didn’t need to enter the room after all. Though still uncertain about Montgomery, he knew Mycroft could be trusted with John’s company. Quietly, William stood, and walked away.

_Sherlock_ , Mycroft had said once, _let’s not bother ourselves with those bothersome lessons today. Do you remember that charming little pastry shop in town? I’ll buy you some biscuits, and we can simply sit outside the shop all day and watch people pass by. How does that sound?_

With a small smile, William thought of how the young boy had responded. _Let’s just stay there and never come back_.

_There are many people who are depending on us,_ Mycroft had been obliged to remind him, _but they can do without us for a day. Come along, grab your coat, Sherlock._

Sherlock, who was a young mischievous boy who had carved tools and picked locks, who had grown into an eccentric nobleman, cared not at all what the world thought of him. It was much more pleasant to be Sherlock than to be William, who had been groomed since his baptism to be a member of the ruling family.

Sherlock could leave his castle and walk through the mud. He could enter disreputable shops and place commissions on scandalous gifts for his beloved. Sherlock could defy laws, of convention and otherwise.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was sitting in the castle’s chapel. It was well into the evening now, and nobody else was there. He could not remember a time when he had made use of a chapel full of people.

A few minutes later, someone sat down next to him. It was not his beloved, and it was not his brother. It was his friend.

Lestrade clasped his shoulder, with sympathetic concern. “You weren’t gone long. Everything all right, King William?”

The nobleman puzzled over that name. He looked down at himself, narrowing his eyes in contempt at the tasteless royal ensemble he wore. “Everything will soon be made right.”

~~

Before Sherlock could do anything to undo the barriers that William had created, he had to know that a better man than himself supported him. John must have been kept long, because he returned late and exhausted to the king’s bedroom, so Sherlock did not bother him then. The king was content to pull back the covers and welcome his servant into his sheets. John, normally so modest, was in such need of rest that he lied down immediately, and gave little more than a soft, wordless murmur of contentment when Sherlock moved closer to him, with an arm over John’s side.

In the morning, Sherlock woke first. John was still deeply asleep. Perhaps his empathy had got the better of him. As draining as caring for William must be, it was really no surprise that offering a sympathetic ear to the other royal brother as well had tired John. Sherlock could not help reaching for John’s face, which had softened in sleep. A strand of John’s hair was brushed aside, and the privilege of touching his servant roused Sherlock’s heart.

John deserved to be treated with more generous care than a pompous king could ever bestow.

Sherlock carefully rolled off the bed, careful not to disturb John, and went to the bathroom. Many times, John had run a bath for him and cleaned him with gentle, unassuming hands. It pained Sherlock to remember that whenever John bathed himself, he had done so alone. This morning would be different. He ran a bath, and set the soap and sponge to the side in easy reach.

He returned to John, and tenderly placed his hand on the servant’s shoulder. “John, beloved?”

John’s eyes blinked open. “Hmm?” He looked up at Sherlock and smiled. “M’lord? What can I do for you?” His dear John was much too kind.

“No, John, I will do something for you.” Sherlock took John’s hand, and gently helped the servant onto his feet. John, though a little flustered, followed without complaint. He walked quietly as he was led to the bathroom.

John brightened when he saw the water in the bath. “Oh, you’ll let me wash you again? But you didn’t have to run the bath, sir.”

Sherlock could not bear John’s generous words, and yet he was hungry for more of his dear servant’s warmth. He closed the door behind John, and came behind him, closing his arms around the other man. He fancied that John was breathing a little faster that moment, and it was lovely to behold. “May I undress you?”

“M-Me?” John stammered. Though his gaze fell down, he could not hide the creeping blush on his cheeks from Sherlock.

Murmuring to John’s ear, Sherlock murmured, “I would very much like to clean you.” In no hurry, he kissed his servant’s neck. “May I?”

John’s heart was beating faster. “Yes, m’lord…”

Sherlock’s hands rested over John’s nightgown. John shyly leaned into one of Sherlock’s arms, nosing it lovingly. The nobleman gratefully undressed John, helping him out of his nightgown and underwear. He did not want to leave his servant cold or self-conscious, so Sherlock readily guided John into the bath.

With a beautiful, resounding sigh, John sank back. He seemed to feel guilty for it, however, and sat more upright, even if he did hide his chin in the water. “It feels nice, m’lord.”

Still dressed in his dressing gown, Sherlock took hold of the sponge and soap, kneeling at the side of the bath. “You may call me Sherlock,” he said, his own voice deeper than he would have expected. He was not immune to the sight of John, naked and flushed, in his own bath.

Surprised, John turned to look at him directly, but even as shocked as he was he could not overstep his station. He quickly looked away.

Sherlock leaned closer, turned John’s face back to him, and kissed him chastely but soundly. He loved the little sounds that escaped John. He imagined all the noise his servant would make if he did not hold himself back. Or perhaps, Sherlock wondered as he thought of the gifts he had ordered, if he _could_ not hold himself back from doing as he truly desired? Sherlock moaned softly, as affected by the kiss as he was by the desires encouraged by John’s closeness.

When they pulled apart, John gasped, “Sherlock?”

“That’s right,” Sherlock breathed. He took John’s arm, and when he felt that it was shaking, stroked it soothingly, adding soap.

John shuddered pleasantly, his eyes fluttering. “You’re… You’re Sherlock now?”

Sherlock bowed slightly, playfully sniffing John’s arm, admiring how the soap mingled with John’s homely scent. “If you do not mind being loved by an eccentric nobleman who cares so little about class and society?”

When Sherlock took a long whiff of him, John actually chuckled adorably. “Nah, I don’t mind, sir.” With sudden nervousness, John bit his lip. “But, I may still call you sir?”

Sherlock’s hand moved further down John’s body, well into the water, circling over the man’s stomach. “Of course, if you wish… Ah!” He briefly came into contact with the aroused part of John’s body before he meant to, but was overjoyed to feel that John was excited already.

“Oh…!” Apparently, John had not even known that he was so affected. “Would you…?” The meek request was left unfinished, abashedly abandoned.

“No, please, John, say it.” Sherlock returned to John’s arm and kissed along it in the most welcoming gentlemanly fashion he could. “My beloved, you could ask anything of me. I am yours.”

John’s eyes were wide with interest, and darker than normal.

Sherlock whispered, “Do you know the demands you could make of me, what I would do without hesitation for you? I am more your servant than you are mine. I have been for a long time John, and I will be long after we are wed.”

“After we are wed…” John repeated dazedly. “Oh! M’lord! I’m sorry, I forgot to ask Father Lestrade…”

“Do not concern yourself. Other matters required your attention. Besides, there will be time for that later. For now,” Sherlock said, “will you tell me what you desire?”

“Well, u-um, sir,” John mumbled, “I liked it when you touched me, I guess…”

That was not really a request, but Sherlock could not leave his modest servant unsatisfied. “Like this?” With a palm full of soap, Sherlock touched his beloved again, with a firmer grasp.

John’s back arched and he made a little cry. “Sherlock!” The servant’s hands, perhaps too bashful to do much else, grasped Sherlock’s arm helplessly. “God, yes, please!”

“Is it all right for me to be Sherlock, John?” Sherlock asked. He worked steadily to relieve his beloved, staunchly ignoring his own body’s demands. It was a terrific pleasure in itself to see John react so strongly to a simple touch.

John looked at him with eyes that were full of kindness as well as desire. “Sir? Oh, sir, of course!” His hips stuttered in the water, and his eyes went shut at an obvious but feeble attempt for self-control. “Sherlock!”

“My dear John.”

“Sherlock, it’s all right! Oh, it’s always all right!” It seemed that John’s self-control was weakening, because the servant suddenly latched onto Sherlock’s person, hugging the startled nobleman. “You can be yourself around me. It’s okay!”

Sherlock was deeply stirred by John’s warmth. Without thinking, his hands fell away from John’s body, instead rising to wrap around the man in turn. He needed to hold onto John.

John was shaking, and he groaned. “Oh, Sherlock, please join me, won’t you?”

A request! A request from his John! Only for that reason was Sherlock able to pull away from John, and at once he began undressing himself. He was terribly eager to join John in the warm water, and even more enthusiastic to do as John wished. Yes, he could exist as Sherlock. He could live with the shame of defying who he ought to be, as long as it was all right with John.

He had John’s support to be his true self.

Once he was unclothed, Sherlock stepped into the bath, but it felt so strange that he could not bring himself to take another step by himself. There was John, naked in the bath, trembling. He was almost helplessly stroking himself now with just a slight touch, as if afraid to do any more than that, watching Sherlock’s indecisiveness.

Was Sherlock allowed to be with John in such an intimate way? Could he give John all his love, and receive whatever John gave to him? Could he be with John as an equal?

He had never known John to infer someone’s thoughts the way Sherlock sometimes did. Yet, as flustered as he was, John looked at him with so much desperate love and understanding, and he murmured so sweetly and reassuringly. “I… I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was upon John in an instant, holding John with nothing but water between them, and kissed him more hungrily and deeply than before. Whimpering, John ground against him.

Though overwhelmed by being so close to John, Sherlock could see that John was in great need by then, and he wished to please his beloved. He took John in hand once more.

John’s reaction was wonderful. He stilled for a moment and then found his euphoria, trembling and then relaxing in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock still held him, quietly bringing himself off as he admired his beloved.

It was incredible to be trusted this much, to hold John when he was this vulnerable. There was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind about what their future would be like. He would marry John, before the God John loved so much if before nobody else, and would happily pledge his loyalty to him.

“I’ve got you,” John said softly, drawing Sherlock from his hazy dream. The servant was gently moving Sherlock’s hand away and replacing the touch with his own, encouraging the king’s hips to push freely into the grasp that was offered.

Sherlock was powerless to John’s hand, and he could not stop the deep groans coming from himself. He hardly cared, not when John was murmuring to him in such a soothing tone. The words melted around Sherlock and sent a rush through his veins. When John guided him to thrust, Sherlock knew in some distant part of his mind that he would soon be undone.

When he was, John was still there. He let Sherlock fall onto him, adjusted him so that his head rested peacefully on John’s shoulder, and calmed him with the mellow tones of another story.

They each had a significant task ahead of them, Sherlock knew. John still had a question for Lestrade, and where Sherlock was concerned, it was no simple task to set things right between two brothers accustomed to hating each other. It did not follow that he and John had to hasten through their time together.

~~

It was clear to Sherlock that they should meet in neutral territory. Unfortunately, there was not a single space in the castle that could be used. The war room had only ever been his older brother’s domain, and Montgomery still seemed to govern the treasury. The meeting rooms and offices used by the current monarch were, of course, William’s.

The chapel, perhaps? It was a haven by John’s reckoning at least, and ruled by Lestrade, who appeared to be on good terms with each party. Yet, as much as John and Lestrade had done do bring Sherlock this far, he needed to speak to Mycroft alone.

He remembered a place that would do.

The most neutral territory was far away from the castle, in the middle of town. The location was an old public house that had been a staple of the area for many years. It was time for midday lunch, so there were working folk in the place who swallowed down their drinks and made just enough noise to make each conversation private.

Once he was inside the warm tavern, Sherlock loosened his blue scarf and claimed a small table in the corner. A young boy and his older brother had sat in this spot long ago, one excitedly deducing the history of each bar patron, the other quietly sipping his common ale with an amused smile.

A barmaid came to ask him what he would have. Acting with more confidence than he truly had at the moment, Sherlock told her that he had a friend coming soon, and they would each appreciate a dark, frothy mug. He chose the finest of their ales. While nobody unfamiliar with the castle would spot the king in his plain coat, he was still a gentleman, albeit one quirky enough to find company amongst farmers and craftsmen. In any case, there were more than a few men of high station seeking a night of genuine enjoyment in the establishment. Sherlock Holmes did not seem out of place.

Once she left, Sherlock gave a cursory glance at the crowd. There was nothing that could keep his attention. People laughed and drank and sang songs. He wondered if, in the days before William had selfishly taken the kind apothecary away, John had ever come here. It was likely that John had kept his friends and colleagues enthralled with his mysteries. As irrational as it was, though, Sherlock preferred to think that the stories were only for him. Maybe for their future children, too.

His thoughts were taking a fond and hopeful turn until a familiar figure entered the fray, striding comfortably with an umbrella. Taking care for subtlety as Sherlock did, Mycroft dressed in a doublet and trousers of a relatively understated quality. He appeared to look casually around the tavern, though Sherlock was certain Mycroft had seen everything instantly. He knew exactly where Sherlock was, and he was taking his time. In the presence of a man he had not seen in many months, in a guise he had not observed in many years, Sherlock suddenly felt more than a little uncertain. He dared to imagine that he was not the only one who was nervous.

At last, Mycroft began his approach. His umbrella was now in clear view, and it shocked Sherlock so profoundly that he could not take his eyes away from it. He had been but a child when he carved the rod that formed the core of that object. It had taken him ages to fashion a usable umbrella, though it had been all worthwhile when he had given it to Mycroft and seen his brother smile. It had accompanied the king-to-be whenever he ambled along with young Sherlock on a grand adventure into the city.

When Mycroft stopped in front of the table, Sherlock’s eyes rose, and he observed Mycroft, looking rather shocked himself, appraising the blue scarf.

Who would greet whom? Which brother, which persona? To his mortification, Sherlock felt like a child, bewildered and unsure.

Fortunately, Mycroft had the answer. Carefully, he said, “John informed me that you would be here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt more relief than he had expected, though he would not let his guard down entirely. He nodded, and gestured towards the other seat at the table in invitation. Mycroft nodded as well and took the seat.

Sherlock could read the tension in Mycroft’s hunched position easily, but he had no idea how to say something about it. He looked around at the other tavern patrons, wishing that one of the normal people who knew how to talk about things could do this for him.

Mycroft folded his hands together and studied their table. They had each ruled over this country at some time or another, Sherlock considered, one through a war and the other its aftermath, yet neither of them knew how to move past their competition.

The barmaid returned with their drinks. She obviously noticed the unspoken tension between the two men and gave them their refreshments quickly before seeing to the next patrons.

Mycroft touched the handle of his mug. “Lestrade’s new cross. It has a charming design.”

“Hmm. I saw that John has a new cloak.” Sherlock did not have to say that he knew it was Mycroft’s work. “It suits him.”

“Hmm.”

This was not a brilliant conversation so far. Sherlock took a little of his drink, letting his eyes wander again. This time, there was a point of interest in the tavern. A woman cradling a baby was speaking in a jovial tone to a man who was clearly her husband, judging by his ease and resemblance to the baby.

The baby gave a strange cough-cry, and for all he knew about the little signs that gave people away, Sherlock had no idea what that sound meant. The mother knew instantly however, and gently patted the baby’s back, helping the baby give an impressive burp.

Apparently the father was also impressed, because he laughed and affectionately tousled the shock of dark hair on top of the baby’s head. One of the father’s friends called him away for a moment, and the woman sat patiently, holding the baby with the practiced care of a woman with other children.

“That’s an adorable baby,” Mycroft said to the woman politely.

Sherlock did a double take, to the empty seat across from him sand back. When had Mycroft walked over there?

“Oh, thank you,” the woman said kindly. “Her name is William, like the king, y’know?”

Sherlock shuddered in fear of the bitterness this comment might provoke, but instead, Mycroft was merely charmed.

The baby coughed a little, and her attentive mother picked up a napkin to wipe the dribble at the corner of its mouth, making some reassuring sounds when the baby gave a little fuss.

“A fitting name,” Mycroft murmured with a grin. Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if he had heard the action, Mycroft continued, leaning nonchalantly on his umbrella, “She must make your household a busy place, I’m sure. The same will soon happen in my household. My brother,” Mycroft nodded in Sherlock’s direction, “he is an expecting parent himself, you see. It will be his first.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the strange statement. It was true that Sherlock was at least planning to acquire a child, but there was no way his brother could know anything about that. What was Mycroft up to?

“Really!” the woman said happily. “How exciting for him. Would he like to see what he’s in for? William loves meeting people.”

“He would love to. Brother mine, would you come here a moment?”

With as much care as a man walking on a narrow bridge, Sherlock walked to where Mycroft was standing. He muttered a soft hello to the woman, and smiled at the baby.

“Here, would you like to hold her?” The woman stood up, and was placing the baby in Sherlock’s arms before the gentleman knew what was happening. “Oh, look at that, you’re a natural.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, his gaze locked with the curious one of the creature in his arms. He was really holding a baby. A nobleman holding a drooling, smelly baby! How incredible! Would he have this privilege with a child of his own, together with his caring John?

“She’s beautiful,” Sherlock whispered.

The woman smiled, and took her baby back gently when Sherlock returned her. He thanked the mother, and wished good health for her and her baby.

When they sat down again in their corner table, Sherlock was still buzzing with awe. “Can you believe that such a little creature will grow into an adult?”

“It is astonishing,” Mycroft said in agreement, drinking his ale.

“What a strange being that baby is! Making those different sounds for different things. And being so fascinated by everything!”

“She’ll be a clever one, no doubt.”

“Ah, look at that, her parents are so interested in her.”

“I’m sure you’ll act the same around the baby your lover is carrying.”

It felt to Sherlock as if the breath was knocked out of his lungs. He finally considered how odd speaking of this with Mycroft was. He stared at his brother.

“No?” Mycroft sighed. “I was doing so well, too.”

“Mycroft…?”

“Please, Sherlock. Anyone could have read the way you looked at that baby. You were thinking of having children, of course. You were so utterly focused on that infant that you hardly noticed me leave the table you were sitting at. You haven’t been concerned with them before. You aren’t familiar with their sounds. This is a newly awakened interest. Then, it’s not because of… responsibilities you might have gained two years ago,” Mycroft said quietly, and Sherlock did not press on the comment. “The most likely cause was that you are expecting. Am I wrong?”

Sherlock futilely shook his head. “I… I can’t…”

“This paramour of yours is of a different station than us, isn’t she? Otherwise I would have heard of her.” Mycroft’s voice became startlingly, sincerely sympathetic. “It must be difficult to bear the keeping of such a secret.”

A part of Sherlock found it entertaining that Mycroft had come so close to, but had not quite reached, the right conclusion. The rest of Sherlock was terrified of letting his secret known, of having all his plans unravelled.

He could not tell his brother about John. Montgomery could not be trusted with anything that was precious to William. He would just mock it and boast about how superior he was to the overly excitable, inexperienced boy who had taken his throne…

“I won’t tell anyone, Sherlock.” Mycroft waited with compassion, holding onto his mug patiently. In this place, in these clothes, Mycroft had all the freedom that Sherlock had to act as he felt and to say as he meant.

There was no sign that Montgomery ever existed.

Had he ever, really?

Sherlock took a deep breath. How would John say it? He’d tell an interesting story, one that would make everything better. “We haven’t asked the stork yet.”

Mycroft leaned back, crossing his arms in confusion. “I’m not as familiar as I could be with colloquialisms, Sherlock, but I do not think you’re using that metaphor correctly.”

“I rather am.” Sherlock decided abruptly that he did want his brother to know. He was adamant that the children he would raise with John were going to be raised in a whole family. “I, ah,” Sherlock looked away, “I cannot expect John to carry a child.”

He paused to give his words their full meaning, and then glanced back at Mycroft.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth was slowly rising in a smirk, and in concert Sherlock felt heat rise to his cheeks. By the time Mycroft’s eyes had that astuteness of intense awareness that Sherlock was so used to seeing in his brother, the younger man was red-faced.

“Not for lack of trying, I observe,” Mycroft noted affably.

Blushing furiously, Sherlock buried his face childishly behind the translucence of his mug. Yet strangely, though Mycroft was chuckling at his discomfiture, a heavy weight was lifted off Sherlock’s shoulders.

~~

It was evening when Sherlock was strolling with Mycroft through one of the gardens in a wealthy part of town. Only when they stopped to sit on a stone bench to admire well-groomed rows of flowers did he perceive that they had not talked about their past all day.

The two of them had spoken of children, and without venturing into topics that were too personal, of how those children should be allowed to grow into adults of their own choosing. Sherlock had commented on the interests he perceived in the young people who scampered by, and Mycroft had made an additional note or two. Even John was mentioned again by Mycroft, who seemed to find endless amusement in embarrassing Sherlock with innocent comments on the servant’s obvious nurturing ability.

Sherlock supposed that it might be best for them to confront their issues this way, by thinking about how they would act in the future rather than how they had been set against each other in the past. Or perhaps this was not the best way, but the only way they could manage, at present.

“Where is it that you’ll be acquiring a baby from, brother mine?” Mycroft inquired. “I couldn’t help but notice from our cursory inspection of the city’s populace that people seem rather attached to their brood. They will not simply give one to you.”

“The stork, as I said,” Sherlock answered. He wasn’t sure if he should be more specific than that. He had appropriated Lestrade for the task, but Lestrade had somehow, apparently, become Mycroft’s servant.

“Ah, so you were serious.” Leaning on his umbrella, Mycroft grinned. “I hope you don’t expect _me_ to search for a child for you. Do you expect that I could find one simply by strolling through the trade district, or visiting a few churches?”

Sherlock chuckled. The thought of pristine, placid Mycroft looking for a loud, dirty baby was entertaining. “We’ll find some other way.”

“Of course. I rather hope your first one is a girl. Girls make for clean and kind children.”

“If there are girls,” Sherlock smirked, “teaching them about womanhood will be _your_ responsibility. That duty alone might be enough to compel you to finally take a wife. Though I can’t help but wonder if you’ll still be the more suitable teacher.”

“Oh, brother dear, if only you knew how wrong you were.”

“Believe me, I know you’ll never take a wife.” Sherlock knew his brother well enough to be certain of that. Mycroft had never shown that kind of interest in anyone.

“I was actually countering your first point—I would be delighted to be a teacher for your daughters. But I will never take a wife,” Mycroft cleared his throat, “for much the same reason as you.” He pointedly avoided meeting Sherlock’s gaze, staring instead at the flowers in the garden.

Mycroft…? Sherlock’s eyes opened wide, and he looked at his brother, who had obviously kept so much of himself hidden all these years.

“I didn’t think you were the only one allowed to keep secrets,” Mycroft remarked.

“Who…?” There was one person Sherlock had recently learned spent much time with Mycroft. “It couldn’t possibly be…?”

“You’ve clearly deduced it. There’s no need for me to say it aloud.”

Sherlock was finished with secrets. “Nobody is here but us. Tell me,” Sherlock humphed defiantly, kicking one leg over the other, “or I’ll tell the guards you snuck out.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “We aren’t children anymore, Sherlock.”

“I wish we were. There weren’t any secrets between us then! If we were still children, I would have been running around this garden like a little idiot telling you about my idiotic crush for the apothecary’s son!”

“And I would have told you to quiet your voice, as I must tell you do so now,” Mycroft said, sympathetically. “I am sorry, Sherlock, but these are secrets we must keep. It is what’s proper.”

“I _hate_ what’s proper,” Sherlock muttered. It was all too much. “I hate that I can’t have John sitting at my side when I make a proclamation to the city. I hate that I have to compete with the only family I have in the whole world—and he can’t even tell me when he’s shagging my priest!”

“Must you use that language, Sherlock?” Mycroft was calm, as always.

“Oh, sorry, not the proper term is it?” Sherlock was nearly frenzied now.

Mycroft placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm. It was unusual for Mycroft to use touch so familiarly, and it startled Sherlock.

“I can’t change the world, brother mine. But, at least, things will be better between us.” The older brother said quietly, “I promise. We work together, not against each other.”

“No more secrets?” Sherlock asked. He was hopeful. His big brother was going to make things better.

“No more secrets,” Mycroft said. He looked younger somehow, Sherlock thought, as if they had stepped back in time. “Well, Sherlock, this is the truth. I am, as you say, shagging your priest.”

Sherlock glared in all seriousness, and then burst out laughing. “Haha! You and Lestrade!”

If Mycroft was amused by Sherlock’s unpredictable moods, he didn’t show it. “Although, if you want the total truth, I should say that, in a sense, he is generally the one shagging me.”

Sherlock stopped laughing.

Mycroft looked very pleased with himself. “Perhaps it wasn’t the entire truth that you wanted.”

In fact, Sherlock was more confused than mortified. “Is there a difference?” he asked slowly. Given Mycroft’s humorous tone but no obvious reason for it, it seemed that Sherlock was missing something. Then again, he was uncertain if he should be asking at all.

Mycroft blinked. A moment of thought passed, and then it was Mycroft who was laughing, in his way that was more contained than Sherlock’s, though somehow just as mirthful. “I’ve been delinquent in my responsibilities as elder brother, it seems—given the seven years difference, and the total lack of any other person to teach you.”

It was rather annoying when Mycroft knew something that Sherlock didn’t. “What are you talking about?”

“Let us walk, Sherlock.” Gingerly, Mycroft stood up with his umbrella. “If I truly have to tell you this, I might start blushing, and I’d like to blame it on the exercise.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear—”

“Just walk with me. It won’t kill you.”

Reluctantly, though still somewhat curious, Sherlock stood up, readjusted his scarf, and followed. They resumed their stroll at an easy pace, well out of earshot of any of the other noblemen who frequented this garden.

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Have you ever loved a female, Sherlock?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “You were wrong. This _is_ killing me.”

“Silence, please. Obviously you haven’t. Do you know, very generally speaking, what men and women may do together in the bedroom if they wish?”

“Oh, and now I can talk again?”

“For the purposes of answering my questions, yes.”

“Brother Mycroft, so generous!”

“Sherlock.”

“Fine.” Sherlock crossed his arms, giving his walk a stern character. “I know enough about what adult males and females can do.”

“Then what I am going to tell you is actually rather simple. Two males, if they so choose…” Mycroft cleared his throat. “They can do something similar.”

Sherlock was reluctant to ask for more details, but that didn’t make any sense. Males weren’t built that way. Unless… “Is one of you deformed?”

“What? No.” Mycroft sighed. “Men, if they choose, can… use the back door.”

Understanding hit Sherlock all at once. “Oh my God!” Sherlock cried, making Mycroft drive his hand to his own face in annoyance. “Isn’t that painful?”

“If your partner doesn’t know what he’s doing. But, if he does… Well, God left a little surprise there.”

“Ugh, stop talking,” Sherlock groaned. “I don’t need to know any more about you and _my priest_.”

“That suits me fine. Hmm, John’s an apothecary, isn’t he? A healer for the common people. He probably knows of these things.”

“Hardly. He never mentioned it. We never did anything like that.”

Mycroft shrugged, probably trying to hide his small prophesied blush. “It may not be to his taste, or to yours. It’s for you to discuss with him if you wish. In any case, my duty is done.”

Despite Sherlock’s own annoyance at needing to be taught something so basic, he couldn’t resist one more jab at his amusingly embarrassed brother. “So when you said that Lestrade is the one who—”

“I think it’s time we called a carriage, it’s getting late.” Mycroft hurriedly walked to the street to find their transportation. Sherlock followed, laughing at their ridiculous attempt at a brotherly talk.

Mycroft smiled, and then he was laughing too.

They soon found transportation, and once they were seated in the carriage, the doors firmly closed, Mycroft remarked, “you have another secret to share with me.”

“Oh?”

“If you are to appear to acquire a legitimate heir, you must be married somehow.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“It will only be a small affair. Just half the kingdom,” Sherlock said. “Bring a date, if you like. Unless he’s busy conducting the entire ceremony, which is probable.”

“I see. What’s the trick? Found a lady to marry you for show?”

Sherlock was solemn. “If it wouldn’t endanger John, I would marry him in front of everyone. I’m still marrying him in front of everyone, but he’ll have a veil.”

“Is that so? I have one or two you could borrow.”

Mycroft sometimes had a far-thinking sense of fashion, but that was unusually strange. Sceptically, Sherlock asked, “Why do you have veils?”

“Ah, well… No secrets, yes?” Mycroft hesitated. “If you must know, Lestrade is a very creative man, and sometimes, we—”

“No no, I’ve heard all I need to about _that_.” Sherlock made an exaggerated shudder. “I don’t think I’ll want John to touch _those_ veils.”

“Don’t be absurd. The veils are not soiled.”

“Not a very compelling argument. I don’t need any reminders of your sordid affairs.”

“Is it simply too much effort for you to acknowledge that I have found someone who makes me happy?”

“Absolutely. That’s only something that humans do.”

“I am as human as you are. You are being childish, Sherlock.”

“I am not.”

The carriage travelled over a bridge, the bumps familiar. A calm summer breeze could be felt through the holes in the windows. It was nostalgic to trade this banter, not the biting scorn of adulthood but the immature teasing of children.

“I missed this,” Sherlock mumbled. He did not know if it was the right thing to say, but it was true.

Mycroft looked out the window. “I did as well.”

“I suppose the subject matter was different when we were younger.”

“As I recall, you were fascinated by the different kinds of dirt around the city. We talked about dirt.”

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it? You can tell which part of town you are in by the soil alone.”

“As you have mentioned.”

“Everyone we met gave themselves away by their shoes, and their gloves. Nothing is more telling than hands and feet. I even showed that to John, when I was meeting him in the chapel. He didn’t know I was king at the time. Did I ever tell you about that?”

Of course he hadn’t, so Mycroft happily listened to the story. Sherlock was not the storyteller that John was, but Mycroft seemed interested anyway.

When they arrived at the castle, they swiftly exited the coach and paid the driver. This late in the evening, they could enter their keep quietly without anybody noticing. Like they had as children, the two brothers avoided the guards whose patterns they knew so well.

A glance was shared between them, a brief reminder that this day had not been an illusion, that they were brothers for good, and then they each returned to their own quiet corner of castle.

~~

Days later, when all the items he ordered had arrived, Sherlock’s burning feelings—curiosity one among many—could wait no longer. He found his beloved servant in his quarters at night.

In fact, it was his very eager attendant who approached him.

“M’lord!” John cried happily, instantly bringing a smile to Sherlock’s face. “Oh, ah, Lord Sherlock! I did it!”

Sherlock unwrapped his scarf and hung it up carefully. “What did you do, John?”

“I asked Father Lestrade! We’re going to get married, sir!” Bursting with joy, John hugged Sherlock. Struck by such wonderful news, Sherlock did not mind at all. “We’re going to have a baby and get married! We’ll be together!”

“Lestrade said he would assist us?” The answer was obvious, but Sherlock needed to hear it.

“Yes! I was afraid of talking to him about it, you know, he’s a good priest and I thought he might look down on us, but he was so understanding. He didn’t even seem surprised, really. Is… Is that all right, sir?” John’s arms began to retreat from around Sherlock.

Sherlock grasped John’s hand, and pulled his servant closely to him. He took his time to kiss the shorter man on his cheek, and then his neck. John moaned softly, and the sound stirred Sherlock’s very being.

Suddenly John went silent, obviously trying to keep himself quiet. But Sherlock wanted to hear of all that John felt.

“This is news that we should celebrate,” Sherlock murmured, “don’t you agree?”

“Yes, sir.” John was still being quiet. Why?

“We could have our way with each other. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

“Oh, yes.” That was a little better, but still John was very quiet.

“Excellent.” Sherlock blew out some of the candles, setting the room into a comfortable dimness. He was back with John in an instant, holding his servant from behind. John’s head was bent down, so Sherlock could rest his chin in his servant’s soft hair. “It’s all right for you to look at me, John.”

“I know, sir,” John murmured, though he still looked down at the floor. His sweet, beloved John. He deserved all that William could give him, and all that Sherlock felt for him.

Sherlock lowered his hands to the bottom of John’s tunic, feeling his dearest tremble.

“M’lord…”

“You are beautiful,” Sherlock whispered, reassuring his nervous servant. He carefully slipped the tunic off John’s chest, and immediately glided a hand over the skin that was revealed, humming lowly, appreciatively.

John started to relax, which made Sherlock very happy.

Sherlock loved being trusted to undress John. It made him feel power beyond that of kinghood to be able to undo the fastenings of his beloved’s trousers.

John kindly allowed him to pull that article of clothing down.

Once John was wearing only his briefs, Sherlock guided him to his large bed. It was distracting to see that John’s underwear had a noticeable bulge, though John was effecting to ignore it. “My dear John, please lie down for me.”

His pretty servant climbed onto the bed, and clutched a pillow for lack of anything else to do. He looked at Sherlock with open wonder. “Are you going to…?” Whatever it was he wanted to ask, he couldn’t manage to.

Without getting onto the bed, Sherlock stroked John’s foot. “You can ask me anything.”

“Are you going to touch me?” John asked.

The blatant hope in John’s voice moved Sherlock. They had touched each other numerous times before. Was it truly so monumental a thing to John even now? “In any way you will let me,” Sherlock answered honestly.

“I… I’m sorry, I just still can’t believe it. I’m sorry.” Bashfully, John hugged the pillow to his chest. “That was stupid of me. Didn’t mean to… kill the mood.”

Sherlock had only been smitten further by John’s modesty, and his deepened voice showed it. “Is that what you were doing? Killing the mood?” He kissed John’s ankle. “You had me fooled.”

John gasped when Sherlock started to nibble a little bit. “Any way, m’lord, any way you’re willing to touch me…”

“You don’t need to decide so soon. I brought gifts for you, John.”

“Huh?” It was amazing to see that John was dazed so quickly, from only a kiss on his ankle. “Oh! You didn’t need to do that.”

“It was not very selfless of me,” Sherlock remarked. “One moment, my love.” He adored the light in John’s eyes when he said that. Swiftly, Sherlock went into his dressing room, and retrieved the discreetly hidden package he had stowed there.

The first item he showed to John was a small bottle with crushed herbs inside. Sherlock opened the bottle, and held it under John’s nose. With the discerning instincts of an apothecary, John sniffed the mixture.

“Do you know what this is?” Sherlock asked.

“Smells lemony,” John noted, “a bit woody, too… rosemary? And something else… thyme, I think.”

“That’s right. Why might I have a mixture of rosemary and thyme?”

“Thyme can treat sore throat, and rosemary is good for digestion, but the mixture,” John visibly swallowed, “Is said to be an aphrodisiac.”

Sherlock held the bottle under his own nose, and took a deep whiff. “Interesting.”

“Sir…”

“I have more.” It was incredible to hear John breathe faster when Sherlock retrieved several belts, made of the finest leather. “Should we make use of these, John?”

In the dim candlelight, Sherlock could barely see the incredible look that flashed in John’s eyes. The king was filled with pride, to see that John could want him that much.

He eagerly showed John the third item, a tall, thin bottle. Sherlock poured out a sample of the dark liquid inside, then spread it over a spot on John’s leg. It was a cool, soothing oil. “These gifts may be used however you wish, beloved.”

“You’re much too kind.” John leaned forward, testing the leather belts in his hands. “What do you want, sir?”

“Don’t you have desires of your own?”

John blushed. “I’d like very much to please you.”

Sherlock smiled. John was a generous soul. “There is something I am interested in.”

“Yes, m’lord?”

“My dearest,” the king’s voice dropped to a quieter level, “do you know of a man loving a man… in a certain physical sense?”

John’s eyes were wide. “You wish for us to do that?”

“We do not have to.”

“No, I’d very much like to do that. I’ve, um,” John murmured, “done it to myself, in the past, sir.”

That small admission had Sherlock’s heart racing. “John,” he groaned, imagining it. “How incredible it would be to watch you love yourself…”

John reached for the tall bottle and set it next to himself. “Is that what you would enjoy, sir?”

Sherlock should only do what John wanted, should make sure that he was doing only what John desired. Yet Sherlock was weak to the beauty of his devoted John. “Immensely.”

But his kind John was too modest to begin on his own, that much was clear. “Are you sure?”

“Here, let me help you.” Sherlock gently laid his hands on John’s underwear, and, admiring his beloved’s deep blush, pulled it down, completely undressing his servant while Sherlock was still clothed. He wanted to touch the need that had been revealed, but more than that, he wanted this evening to proceed at a pace comfortable for John.

Perhaps Sherlock had looked there too long anyway, because John quietly offered an apology, then poured some of the oil onto his hand, and turning his face timidly against the pillow, touched his own rear.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, entranced.

John moaned softly as he began to push a finger in.

Sherlock was struck with a desire to keep watching, and at the same time, a desperate urge to help his dear John. “My love…”

“Am I doing it,” John breathed, “well, for you, sir?”

Fond feelings overwhelmed Sherlock. “I’d like to help.”

John’s breath was very shaky, in that moment. “You don’t have to.”

Pleadingly, Sherlock leaned closer and rested his hand on John’s arm. “You are too kind to me. You are doing very well,” he said to reassure his beloved, “but I would like to touch you.”

“Yes, please, if you really want to.”

Sherlock wanted to reward all the trust John placed in him. He climbed onto the bed, his heart full of gratitude. With the utmost care, he poured the oil onto his fingers, and then guided John’s hands away. He touched John’s rear slowly, reverently.

John whispered, “Thank you, sir.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” He inched a little into his servant’s surprisingly warm, tight entrance.

“Oh,” John sighed. “Like that… Go slowly, m’lord.”

Doing just as John asked, Sherlock was enthralled. He had a new way to please John. He went incredibly slowly, stretching his beloved, learning what he felt like…

“Oh!” John cried, his body thrusting aimlessly.

Sherlock did not know how to quell his own desire when John was so beautiful. “Was that all right?”

John groaned deeply. “Oh, sir, yes. You can add another finger… if you want to.”

Encouraged, Sherlock did so, captivated by the pleasure on John’s half-hidden face. “Don’t be ashamed, John.”

He saw a small smile. “I never thought I would do this with you, m’lord… It’s, its so… sinful, but it feels so right when you do it… Oh, that’s…” John groaned when Sherlock touched him deeply again.

If this was such a taboo act, then that explained why King William had never heard of it. It was spectacular to know he was doing something utterly forbidden with his beloved. He saw that he had done too much, that John was straining not to relieve himself now. Affectionately, Sherlock reached around John with his free hand, and stroked him.

A desperate whine escaped John. “Sir… Don’t you want to take me?”

“You mean me inside you?” It was an intense, provocative thought, to be sure. “You would allow me that?”

“I would like it a lot, actually,” John whispered.

Sherlock wanted to be perfect for his cherished servant. He wished he knew everything about pleasing John. “Would you tell me how?”

John looked debauched and magnificent with flushed skin and dishevelled, pillowed hair. “You really don’t know,” he said softly. “Sir… your gifts… can I…?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. It didn’t matter what the question was. “Use them however you wish, please.”

An imaginative, almost mischievous light sparkled in John’s eyes. “Would you lie back, m’lord?”

Sherlock did not know what his servant wished to do, but it was more thrilling than anything to wonder what his modest servant truly desired. As John asked, Sherlock lied back, watching John with great interest.

John reached over Sherlock—the nude and obviously aroused body of his love greatly distracting the king—and when John’s arm returned, he was holding the leather belts.

As if it did not matter that Sherlock was still clothed, John respectfully took one of Sherlock’s wrists, and bound the compliant hand to one of the slats of the bed’s large headboard.

Feeling his servant handle him so gently this way, Sherlock felt something needy drop low in his stomach.

“John,” he murmured.

“This is okay, yeah? We don’t need to do this.”

It was difficult to put the bliss he felt into words. “This is sublime.”

John repeated the process with Sherlock’s other wrist, smiling sweetly. His eyes were dark, but even powerful, passionate emotions seemed fond and tender when they came from Sherlock’s attentive servant. John moved to the side of the bed, picking up both of the bottles Sherlock had gifted to him. “Do I really get to marry you?” he whispered.

The next thing Sherlock knew was that the small bottle of herbs was being held under his nose. The lively scent was mixed irrevocably with the meaning the mixture had, since both Sherlock and John knew what the herbs were for. Sherlock hardly needed an aphrodisiac, but the fact that John wished for him to smell one sent pleasant shivers down his spine.

Then John placed the bottle to the side of Sherlock’s pillow, leaving it there. Oh, Sherlock was utterly devoted to this man.

“I want you to be with me, forever, John.” Sherlock had an urge to reach out and touch John’s face, though the belts prevented it, which only made other urges flourish. “I love you.”

John bit his lip. At last, John started opening Sherlock’s trousers, though his hands were shaking.

Sherlock wanted John to know how much this meant to him. “Do you believe me?”

When John looked back up at him, the corners of his eyes wet with restrained tears, there was a fond pang in Sherlock’s chest.

John didn’t bother removing Sherlock’s trousers entirely before pulling his underwear down and touching Sherlock with a slicked hand.

Those loud, powerful sounds filling the room had to be coming from himself, but it hardly mattered to Sherlock. All that mattered was that he was with John. Who was it that was begging, endlessly entreating for more? The king did not beg, and yet he kept begging. He couldn’t stop pleading for all the love John could give him.

John sat upon him, whispering and moving with more devotion than Sherlock could ever ask for.

Surrounded by thyme, rosemary, and the warmth of his servant, Sherlock could do nothing but cry out his beloved’s name and think of all the times he had rested under John’s attentive care while the sweet man told him stories.

~~

Sherlock watched John carefully while he was cleaning the bedchamber. John was now scrubbing a cloth against the bedpost of the smaller bed. It seemed that the servant often forgot it was there, humming contentedly as he took to cleaning the seldom-used furniture, though Sherlock eyed it every day. It was the place that belonged only to John, where he could sleep if he no longer wanted the king’s company at night.

“I think you should get rid of this bed,” John said as he worked.

Sherlock, who was clasping his royal cloak over his chest, paused. “It is there for you, as you know.”

John seemed disappointed to hear that. “Yes, sir.”

“Of course,” Sherlock continued hastily, “it may be removed, if you wish.”

Immediately, John brightened. “I would like that.”

Did John know what he was suggesting? That he would never again sleep anywhere but in King William’s bed? “I will see to it,” Sherlock said.

John had reached the side of the large bed. On that table were the gifts that John had received the previous day—the bottles and belts, which would seem innocent to anyone who did not know what they were used for. Without hesitation, John lifted the items with a smile, handling the belts as gently as the bottles, and placed them in the trunk where he kept the few personal items he had brought to the castle.

The trunk was one of two pieces in the room that was John’s property—soon to be the only one, pending the removal of the smaller bed. Previously it only held some simple clothing and a small wooden horse. Now it would hold objects that they had shared in the most private of circumstances. To see John easily take claim of his gifts pleased Sherlock.

John had moved to dusting the dressing room. He seemed to take stock of the large room and hummed in thought. “Should your trousers be cleaned today, sir?”

Watching John clean was far more fascinating than Sherlock could explain. It did give him guilt that he was standing uselessly while John worked, but what was truly remarkable was that John did not begrudge him for it. It had seemed reasonable that John had not been comfortable asking King William to pick up after himself, but the man persisted in doing everything even when Sherlock had finally become able to express his true self in John’s company.

His true self, as John well knew, was a bored troublemaker who would crawl through mud to study the footprints of interesting merchants. Yet John still treated him with the same deference as if he were king.

Sherlock noticed that he had been too engrossed in thinking to answer John’s question. It did not matter, apparently, because John had forgiven this with characteristic understanding and continued to dust the dressing room. What incredible fortune the king possessed, to have the loyalty of this kind man.

“You still call me _sir_ ,” Sherlock remarked.

John faltered, pausing in his wiping of a shelf for a moment. “You said that was all right?”

Certainly, Sherlock did not mind the title of respect. If anything, he sometimes enjoyed John’s humble deference too much. “Of course. But you seem to use it exclusively. I simply want you to know that you do not have to.”

He was surprised to see a great deal of hesitance in John’s nod. Saying nothing, John wiped down the shelf thoroughly.

“You do understand that, don’t you, John?”

John grunted meekly, a sound that was probably supposed to resemble agreement.

Sherlock was not one to let something bother his beloved. He entered the room filled with clothes and crowded into John’s space. “Forgive me,” the king said, with little sincerity but much concern, “I didn’t hear you.”

His arm stopped moving, but John still stared at the shelf.

Sherlock did not want to cause John distress, but he had to find out what the matter was. “The name I was given was William Holloway, and it’s what the people call me. What I choose to call myself is Sherlock Holmes, and you are one of the few who may call me that. Would you please exercise your right?” He reached to touch John’s shoulder. John did not push him away. “You may give me any title you wish, but right now, can you call me Sherlock?”

Silently, John bit his lip. Clearly, he was suffering from some insecurity he could not voice aloud.

Sherlock wished he had a magic spell that would ease John’s worries. He tried to recall when John had called him only by his name. There were moments of passion, when John had been too beautifully overwhelmed to monitor himself, and then, there had been the other place. “There was a time when you called me Sherlock. At least, when I reminded you to.”

“In the church,” John said faintly.

“Yes.” In the days before John knew of Sherlock’s kinghood. But John had known that Sherlock was a nobleman, a station well above an apothecary’s son. “Why were you willing to call me Sherlock then, and not now?”

“You weren’t my master then,” John answered.

The impact of those words crashed down brutally upon Sherlock. He had been too selfish after all. The ruse that had brought John into his castle, the fabricated need for a servant, kept John from being free with him. Just then, being in this grand dressing room, more fit for a noble family than just one individual, weighed too heavily on Sherlock’s conscience. He grasped John’s hand, and guided his servant into the main bedroom.

He felt no better to be surrounded by the fine furniture he found there, and certainly not when John had so acquiescently followed his lead. But there was the large bed, with its useless sheer canopy. It was the place that John had chosen, which redeemed it.

“Would you please sit on,” Sherlock considered his words, “on our bed, John?”

His eyebrows up in uncertainty, John nonetheless pulled the curtain aside so he could sit. “You wish to bed me now, m’lord? Should I get your gifts?”

Sherlock felt an embarrassing rush of heat in his stomach. The fact that it was so easy to take his servant to bed did little to soothe his guilt. “I only mean to talk to you.” He held one of John’s hands between his own. “As marvellous as it is to have you in my bed, I have always enjoyed simply talking to you.”

John’s eyes were wide. Clearly, he was having trouble believing that. “Well, you said you like my stories.”

“It is more than the stories,” Sherlock said. “I want to know about how you feel. I wondered that every time I saw you in the church. I wanted to know about everything that was important to you. I wanted to help you.”

“You tried to help me,” John remembered.

“You wouldn’t let me,” Sherlock said softly.

It stirred Sherlock’s heart in ways he had never known before this man to see John’s eyes so downcast. “I shouldn’t have come here. If I had known you were the king I would never have come here.”

“I am the one who tricked you,” Sherlock reminded him, with a sympathetic smile, as if that would help. “Why shouldn’t you have come?”

“You’re so brilliant, Sherlock,” John murmured, sounding very tired. “Don’t you know why?”

Sherlock remembered watching John go from one job to the next, to take care of a family that did little for him in return. It was for them, after all, that John had agreed to be William’s servant. “You think you can’t rely on others. They can rely on you, but never the reverse.”

“Except for a servant,” John whispered. “I can’t count on anyone always being there for me, but… a servant will do whatever their master asks, so a master doesn’t have any reason to leave their servant, right?”

Sherlock sat next to John, and hugged him close. After a brief hesitation, John returned the embrace. “Are you afraid to be equal with me?” Sherlock asked, with no judgment, only compassion.

He heard John’s quiet voice near his ear. “If we were equals, there wouldn’t be any reason for you to keep me.”

“I will never leave you. You are the one who has saved me in so many ways—the one I want to wed, to raise my children with. You are so much more than my equal, John. You are far greater than me.”

“I can trust you?” John asked.

That was the most gentle, unassuming question Sherlock had ever heard. “As I trust you,” he said earnestly.

John held him more tightly. “Sherlock.”

“Thank you for trusting me, John.”

“I love you, sir,” John whispered. “I really do like calling you things like sir sometimes. It makes me feel like I belong to you, and that’s really nice. But I like calling you Sherlock too. I’d like to be your equal. Does that make sense? Can I want both of those things?”

“That makes sense to me.” Sherlock smiled against John’s cheek. He adored all the ways John spoke to him, when it was John doing so. It meant even more now that John knew he could address Sherlock however he wished.

Their embrace was long and comforting.

After they had held each other for a long while, Sherlock decided that the air was too serious between them. He knew how he could change that. “Did you know that my brother is sleeping with Lestrade?”

“What!” John pulled back, gaping in astonishment. “Are you joking?”

Sherlock grinned, pleased with himself for surprising John. “It is true. Mycroft was, unfortunately, quite clear with me on the matter.”

“Oh? Well, it’s great that you two are talking, but… I don’t believe it! Father Lestrade is a _Father_! I thought we were breaking a lot of rules, but that breaks them all. Are you sure?”

“Mycroft would not deceive me.” Sherlock was struck by how monumental that statement was, and if the raised eyebrows on John’s face were any indication, John was also moved, but Sherlock could think on these feelings some other time. “Anyway, living in this castle does tend to have a nullifying effect on one’s conception of rules.”

John smiled. “I imagine that explains why Father Lestrade was so understanding about us.”

“I had supposed it was because of my past confessions.” Sherlock kissed John on the cheek, which had the joyous effect of making John blush happily. “Long ago, I confessed to him that I had fallen in love with another man in the war.” Fondly, Sherlock tapped a finger on John’s chest.

It was a rare thing to share one’s confessions, which showed in John’s appreciative eyes. “What did he say?”

Sherlock did not expect the sentiment he felt as he recalled the priest’s words. “Love is sacred.”

John beamed. “I always did like Father Lestrade.”

“I thought he was unintelligent,” Sherlock remarked offhandedly, but at John’s glare he quickly added, “However, I learned better. It was only that he thought himself to be unintelligent.”

John shrugged. “He’s the chaplain for you and your brother. I can’t say I blame him.”

It was a charming experience, Sherlock thought for not the first time, simply to speak openly with John. “It is strange, though. My brother has always despised the priesthood. He told me that I ought to confess nothing.”

John chuckled to himself. “Is he the one who told you not to call a priest Father?”

There was some truth to that, but Sherlock didn’t see anything wrong with it. “I told you before, I’m not religious.”

“I remember,” John said with long-suffering amusement. “It’s still a title though. Besides, if you don’t believe in God, Sherlock, what do you make of the fact that God has answered all my prayers?”

Intense affection for his beloved compelled Sherlock to pull John close again and kiss him soundly. “Maybe I am an angel,” Sherlock murmured, combing through John’s hair, “or in their service, anyway; sent by God, for only you.”

“An angel who doesn’t believe in God?” John sounded sceptical, but his voice was low with want that Sherlock ached to satisfy.

“Details,” Sherlock muttered, and returned to kissing his beloved. They soon fell back onto the bed, still kissing each other deeply.

John moaned so prettily, Sherlock thought. This was his soon-to-be husband, his equal.

“You are safe here, John,” Sherlock murmured to him, “be louder for me.” He began undressing his cherished servant, kissing his way down John’s chest as he went lower, listening to every euphoric, modest, entrancing sound that John made.

When John’s trousers were opened, and the sweet man pleaded for Sherlock’s love, the king continued his path, sheltering John lovingly and warmly in his throat. It was pure pleasure to hear John’s cries grow louder, just as it was deeply soothing to witness John shiver from ecstasy in the intimate sanctuary of their shared home.

~~

Sherlock sat in his meeting room, now empty save for himself and several vacant chairs. He had just had a meeting with idiotic advisers. It was a far more tedious process than it should have been to announce one’s upcoming wedding to the public.

At least his work was done for the day. Now he could return to John, or see his brother, or visit his priest. He certainly did have a few questions for Father Lestrade. In any case, Sherlock was hopeful, a feeling he was feeling alarmingly often as of late. How strange it was to consider that they were all becoming so close.

The door nudged open, and John peeked in. “Um, sir?”

It was lovely to see John, but something was clearly bothering him. “John, what is it?”

John entered the room, closing the door behind him. “I’m not sure you were right about Lord Mycroft and Father Lestrade.”

But Mycroft had told him about that, not Montgomery, so it had to be true! “What makes you say that?”

“Today I cleaned your brother’s dressing room.” John seemed to dither about whether or not he should say more. “I, um, I was going to do his laundry, and I found lady’s garments among his dirty clothes. It was sort of hidden, too.”

Sherlock leaned back, befuddled. “Was it a single gown? It might have ended up there by mistake.”

“It was more than just a gown. There was also a bonnet, a lady’s gloves, and, well,” John cleared his throat, “a woman’s undergarments.”

“I see. Obviously he is very well acquainted with a lady. Either Mycroft has not been entirely honest with me, or he has lied to the Father.” Sherlock refused to think that Mycroft had deceived him, or had been unfaithful to Lestrade. Yet he could not think of another explanation. “This must be some misunderstanding.”

“I hope so,” John said.

“Lestrade is probably in the chapel now. Bring him here, please.”

John nodded. He left the room, immediately doing as the king asked him.

Sherlock crossed his arms. Perhaps he should have known better than to be so hopeful about this family. He still hoped, however, that there was an explanation for the evidence Mycroft had left behind.

In a short while, John returned with Lestrade. Once again, John closed the door to give them some privacy.

“Father Lestrade,” Sherlock greeted.

Lestrade stared at him, astonished. “You called me Father?”

John smiled a little.

“It was John’s idea,” Sherlock said. “Has John told you why I asked you here?”

“No, King William.”

“You may call me Sherlock,” the king said.

“Mycroft mentioned that,” Lestrade nodded. “I would be happy to.” It was a good sign that Mycroft had shared this much with the priest, at least.

“Father,” Sherlock continued, “what does my brother mean to you?”

The immediate embarrassment on the priest’s face was very telling. “What John means to you, I suppose.”

Considering the unfathomable change that John had wrought in Sherlock, that was a bold claim.

“I know it’s not proper of me, in any sense,” Lestrade admitted. “I hope you can still allow me to be your chaplain.”

“What? Of course,” Sherlock said. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Father,” John said, with a compassionate tone, “we wanted to talk to you about something I found in Lord Mycroft’s rooms, while I was cleaning.”

“Oh?” Lestrade, apparently understanding that this would be a serious conversation, took a seat, glancing between John and Sherlock in curiosity.

John looked expectantly at Sherlock to speak. The items in question were probably too scandalous for John to easily discuss, especially in front of a priest. Sherlock inquired to Lestrade, “Is Mycroft faithful to you?”

The question clearly took Father Lestrade by surprise. “I suppose he is,” he said with a smile.

Sherlock was not a praying man, but if he were, he would pray that Mycroft was the person he remembered and not that other deceitful person. He needed Lestrade to tell him that Mycroft was not a liar or an adulterer or anything but Mycroft. “Are you sure?”

“Why do you ask?”

Again, John was too bashful to say anything about the garments, so Sherlock answered Lestrade. “John found clothing belonging to a lady—undergarments included—in my brother’s laundry. The evidence suggests that Mycroft is having an affair.”

Lestrade’s face turned bright red. He burst out laughing, doubling over in his chair with a hearty guffaw.

“Father?” John asked, confused.

Sherlock was no less bewildered. “Why are you laughing?” Gravely, he added, “This might mean Mycroft is deceiving you.”

Lestrade calmed himself, and opened his mouth to say something, but then a fit of laughter overcame him again and he buried his head in his arms.

“He’s gone hysterical,” Sherlock remarked. “Utterly mad.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Lestrade managed cheerily, recovering his breath, “you’re really going to regret this.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

John asked with concern, “What’s going on, Father?”

Lestrade made a show of glancing at the door, making sure that it was closed. “John,” he said to the servant, “my lord,” he addressed Sherlock, “I can assure you both that you don’t need to be worried.”

“I hardly see how,” Sherlock commented.

“Have more faith in your brother,” Lestrade admonished. “Those clothes… they belong to Mycroft.”

“That’s ridiculous. My brother has no reason to own such garments.”

Blushing as much as before, Lestrade mumbled, “What Mycroft does with those garments is his own business.”

Suddenly, the veils made a lot more sense.

Sherlock gasped. “Is there no indecency you two have not pioneered?”

“Oh!” John exclaimed. “Oh, God. You dress in women’s clothing?”

“Well,” Lestrade shrugged, “it’s not me who does.”

“That’s enough, Lestrade!” Sherlock didn’t care to use the man’s title at this point; he just needed Lestrade out of the room. “We’re finished here!”

“Good with me.” Father Lestrade stood up from his chair. “I hope this taught you a valuable lesson.”

Sherlock’s head sank onto the table. “I will never ask any questions ever.”

Lestrade chuckled. “The point is, your brother’s a good man. He’s changed for the better, just like you. Don’t assume the worst.”

“This _is_ the worst,” Sherlock groaned.

“Be nice,” Lestrade said. “He feels terrible about doing it, you know—wearing that stuff, I mean. He kept me from finding out about it for the longest time. Doesn’t even know why he does it. But there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Probably for lack of anything better to do, John opened the door for Lestrade. “Um, I’m glad it’s all okay.” He smiled at the Father. “You’re certainly the most open-minded priest I’ve ever known.”

“I’m only God’s humble servant,” Father Lestrade grinned. “We should have a chat about our boys sometime. We could commiserate over a great deal, I can tell.”

“I’m not a boy,” Sherlock protested. “And there will be little sympathy to be had. Mycroft and I are nothing alike.”

John brightened, ignoring Sherlock. “I would like that very much, Father.”

Lestrade nodded, and left the room, another chuckle audible from the hallway.

Sheepishly, John turned to Sherlock. “I should have left what I found alone. I was just worried for Father Lestrade. I underestimated your brother, too.”

“We couldn’t possibly have known about his habit. It is reassuring, though, even if I am learning more about Mycroft than I ever intended to.”

“Siblings should be able to talk to each other about anything.”

“Don’t you have a sister, John?”

“My family doesn’t count.” John clasped his hands together, approaching Sherlock humbly. “This is the family I’ve chosen,” he told the king, his smile warm with love and affection.

Sherlock pulled John onto his lap. He kissed his beloved, who was surprised for a moment, as if this was an unexpected gift, and then returned the kiss. Everything about John left Sherlock in awe. “This is the father of my children,” Sherlock murmured.

John hugged him. “With us for fathers and them for uncles,” he muttered light-heartedly, “our children will turn out magnificently.”

The king closed his eyes, content.

“Maybe we should say sorry to Lord Mycroft,” John said.

“You are a considerate man, John.”

Modestly, John cracked a smirk. “Or we can get him a new corset,” he giggled. “The one I found was sort of worn.”

“On second thought, maybe we shouldn’t give him any apologies. It might be better to not let him know we’ve found out, or he might enact swift revenge.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” John said. “Everyone has things about themselves that other people don’t understand. It could give you an excuse to share more about yourself. Obviously you two still have a lot to learn about each other.”

“But Mycroft knows everything.”

John hummed in thought. “Does he know how much you like stories?”

That was unlikely, Sherlock realised. “I don’t think he does.”

Sherlock took John’s advice to heart.

He later approached Mycroft’s quarters, where he found his brother primly reading a book in an armchair.

“I am sorry that I thought you were an adulterer because there were women’s garments in your laundry,” Sherlock said without preamble. Lestrade had undoubtedly told Mycroft about what happened. “Also, I am sorry that I found out you wear women’s clothing sometimes. It’s fine, though.”

Mycroft looked up at Sherlock, putting his book down slowly.

Sherlock felt like he had to say more, but it was hard to know what. Maybe he should have brought John along. “I shouldn’t have feared that you were the kind of man I thought you were.”

The king could have sworn that he glimpsed a satisfied smile from his brother. As if nothing more needed to be said, Mycroft returned to reading his book.

“I like mysteries,” Sherlock said, trying to offer something of himself in return for what he had discovered about Mycroft. “Stories, riddles, that sort of thing.”

Mycroft’s attention was on him again. They had always been taught that stories, folk tales any anything of the kind was all foolish nonsense.

“John told me some of them during the war. They give me something to think about.”

At last Mycroft spoke. “Not quite on the same level as my shame, but I appreciate your effort.”

Sherlock disagreed. He took the seat next to Mycroft. “I thought I was going to die,” he said. “If not of my wounds, then of the tediousness of it all. Those stories kept me alive.”

The book was solemnly set aside for good. Mycroft was looking at his brother in astonishment. “I think, Sherlock, that will do it.”

Sherlock grinned triumphantly at his redemption. “Have I ever told you about the scar on my arm?”

That had been a mistake. Sherlock’s victory slipped away as Mycroft stiffened. “Are you going to tell me that I should have such a scar?”

William had never been kind about Montgomery’s failure to head into battle during the war. “That quarrel is behind us,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, it is. I’m sorry.”

Somehow, learning about Mycroft’s cross-dressing had paved the way for them to finally talk about the past. It was just odd enough that it suited them. “It wasn’t a good reason to make me king,” Sherlock admitted. “It was obvious that your strategy won the war, not some injudicious prince charging blindly into the fray.” He had a serious question to ask Mycroft. “If you would like to be king again…”

“My God, no.”

The swiftness of the answer surprised Sherlock. “No?”

“I never admitted this—oh, we’ll have a formidable list of revelations by the time we’re done here,” Mycroft noted. “I liked administrating the country, running the land from within my office. But I despised the publicity of the role. Speeches and ceremonies and meetings with the public… I could never get anything done.”

“You don’t mind not being king?”

“Far from it. Do you see how much I can accomplish, forgotten as I am by the public? I have had the time to cultivate my networks. I’ve made deals I could never have made before.” He crossed his arms with pride. “I now control more of this country than you do, Your Majesty. Not that I couldn’t manipulate you if I needed to.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose, those he was not particularly surprised. “Ah, how could I ever doubt that you had changed for the better?”

“As reformed as a saint, brother mine,” Mycroft assured him.

~~

Sherlock had decided by now that committed partners should not keep any secrets from each other. He longed to be open with John in every way and to be trusted in return. John could be so selfless, though, that it sometimes took some prodding to find out what was on John’s mind.

Right now, for instance, hours before their wedding, John was clearly perturbed, shifting between his feet, fiddling with the veil Mycroft had given him.

Sherlock had not understood how deeply ashamed Mycroft was of his habit. It had been a trying effort to convince him to help John dress as a woman. Yet it would have been idiotic not to use Mycroft’s expansive knowledge on the subject of dress to properly outfit John. Really, it was very convenient.

He suspected that his brother and John had bonded over the experience, which was a very humorous and somehow poignant thought. They probably had little choice since it took nearly two hours before John emerged in a flowing wedding dress and shimmering veil.

“Are you nervous, John?” Sherlock asked. He was dressed in the most formal trappings of a king, ready to be committed to his love for life.

“Goodness, yes. Also, a little out of breath. Corsets aren’t easy.”

“I’ll be sure to give Mycroft more credit.” Worried for his beloved, Sherlock took John in his arms. He breathed a sigh of relief as John relaxed. “I will be right there beside you, John.” That was obvious, since they were going to be married, but Sherlock needed John to know that he was truly supported.

“Thank you, m’lord,” John said warmly.

“Hey,” a voice called out. Father Lestrade appeared in the hallway. He was in his cassock as usual, and also wore a formal square biretta cap for the occasion. “Are you two ready to get in the carriage yet?” They were to be carried off to city, to be married in a public hall in front of everybody.

Sherlock noticed that Lestrade was wearing new gloves, made of a deep red that showed the fingertips, which was noteworthy because the weather was warm today, though it could possibly become colder in the evening.

“Will Mycroft be attending the wedding?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft did appear just then, entering the hallway from the other side. It was obvious from the understated way he was dressed that he did not intend to appear in front of the public. “I will be around,” he said simply, in passing. It was Lestrade who he stopped in front of. “I expect to see you after the ceremony.”

“Of course,” Lestrade replied. “Where will you be?”

John was fiddling with his white shoes, which was adorable, yet Sherlock intended to witness this little exchange between his brother and Lestrade, now that he knew what their relationship was. Truth be told, it was difficult to verify that relationship so far. They both stood formally, suggesting nothing other than a polite familiarity.

“I have some business to attend to later in the trade district, and perhaps after that, I will visit a few churches, if you would accompany me.”

“That sounds great, but the trade district is very large, sir. How am I supposed to find you there?”

“Find me?” Mycroft scoffed. He suddenly gave a quick kiss to Lestrade, and as if the taboo act did not ruin their respectable facade, Lestrade reciprocated. Sherlock would have been hard-pressed to explain how he felt about this display, except that it was more interesting than he had anticipated, and evidently John felt much the same.

A little out of breath when they pulled apart, Mycroft said, with half-hearted detachment, “I will find you, naturally. Enjoy your wedding,” he said cordially to Sherlock, and then left them.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Mycroft has business on my wedding day?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Father Lestrade said, noticeably dazed, “only the Lord ever knows what he’s actually up to. Now, we have a wedding to get to, don’t we? It’s time we get moving.”

The king was tempted to remind Lestrade who ought to be in charge, but he found he didn’t care if it was Lestrade who was in charge, so he did not object.

A royal wedding was remarkably boring, Sherlock soon discovered. There was far too much ceremony involved, even if the dramatics were for his sake. His opinion of the day was much improved, however, when Father Lestrade finished reading their vows and Sherlock at last could kiss John as his spouse.

He went through the rest of the event as quickly as possible. All he wished for was to be alone with John.

Eventually, they were returned to the castle. At once, Sherlock took John’s hand and led him to their bedroom. The king wondered if his love was blushing under that veil. Would things be different between them, now that they had promised themselves to each other?

Once they were in the room they shared, Sherlock undressed John, placing all the items that covered his John to the side, since they would no longer be needed. He noticed John breathing faster as the last raiment was pulled down and allowed to be taken away. As he had imagined, John was indeed blushing. The king’s handsome attendant was naked, a dream to behold.

It seemed that, even if it was a subtle change, the wedding had altered something in this room. Sherlock could have sworn that there was a new feeling in the air. Vows of devotion drifted around them, filling the room with their union. King William, king of this land, had been wed, and now he was with his partner.

He guided John onto the royal bed, so that John rested on his back. Sherlock leaned close to him, speaking low and meaningfully. “I would very much like to make love to you, John.”

It seemed to Sherlock that John was too shy to say anything, which was hard to believe, after all the intimate evenings they had known together, though it could have been the significance of the day that left him speechless. He nodded.

Sherlock needed to make his beloved happy. “Is that all right?”

“Did I fail you, m’lord?” John’s voice was feeble, and faltering.

Sherlock stared, shocked. “Never. Do you think you have?”

John turned away, avoiding the king’s gaze. “It’s my fault that your wedding was a ruse… I should’ve been perfect for you, sir.”

“You _are_ perfect for me,” Sherlock whispered, desperately. “I don’t care if you are a man, or a commoner.” He kissed John’s shoulder. “I want John Watson.”

John gasped, the sound a mixture of pleasure and surprise, as Sherlock kissed his neck. “You remember my last name?”

What a question!

“Of course. You wrote it in your letter, after all.”

John was confused, yet only for an instant. The memory washed over his features. He was clearly moved. “The one I wrote for you when I came to the castle.”

“I’ve kept it in my office, though I think I could carve a compartment in Silver Blaze for it.”

“That letter m-meant,” there was a charming stutter from John as Sherlock passionately kiss his jaw, “that much to you, Sherlock?”

“You asked for so little in the letter, though it was so clear how much you desired. It means the world to me.” He kissed John on the lips, taking his time despite the heat building in his abdomen. “What do you desire now, John?”

“Um…” John bowed his head subserviently. “I… I really shouldn’t…”

“My dear Watson,” Sherlock said in a soft, patient manner, “How can your husband serve you this evening?”

“Uh, you, you’re a bit overdressed?”

Sherlock smiled, and stood up from the bed so he could undress himself for John. His royal dressing gown fell to the floor, revealing only one more layer of clothing. Respectfully, John stared at his own hands. Sherlock gently touched John’s chin and lifted it so his beloved could see everything. “It’s all right, John.”

Undressing himself completely, Sherlock felt a little self-conscious himself, but it was worth it to hear John whimper with helpless need.

“The belts, sir,” John pleaded quietly. His body was turned away, though Sherlock could clearly see how aroused his beloved was, and the king could certainly empathise.

Sherlock removed the belts from John’s storage chest, and the tall bottle as well. “What should I do with these, John?”

Submissively, John sat on his knees, keeping his hands behind his back, possibly to keep from touching himself. “Whatever you like, sir.”

Sherlock could not contain his desire for John any longer. “Lie on your stomach,” he murmured. “And keep your hands together.”

John breathed in sharply. It was impossible not to notice how the servant’s body responded to the request. John flipped over, lying on his stomach, his wrists crossing behind his back. His head was resting on the bed, turned to the side. “Like this?”

“Just like that.” Sherlock was going to show John how much he appreciated him. He moved closer and caressed down John’s back, noticing that his beloved was trembling slightly. “Relax, John.”

“I need you so much, m’lord,” John whispered. “I want to be yours.”

Sherlock calmly bound John’s wrists together. “You are mine,” he said, his tone low and dangerous. He poured some of the oil from the bottle into his hands, and began to massage John’s rear.

“Yes,” John moaned, “please.”

Sherlock would never become accustomed to the blossoming warmth that John instilled in his heart. “Do you know that I love you as you are, John?” He carefully started to push into John.

A sensuous shudder passed through John, and the servant’s hands weakly struggled in their binding. “M’lord,” he breathed.

He gradually prepared John more deeply. His body and every other part of him powerfully longed for John. It did nothing to quell his ache when he reached deeply within John and heard his servant cry out. Every moment was full of heady anticipation.

“Now,” John pleaded, “please, sir.”

“Almost.” Sherlock wanted John to be comfortable. He also loved to touch John this way.

John spread his legs further apart, making himself even more vulnerable to the king. “Please, I need more of you.”

The yearning in John’s plea was too much for Sherlock to bear. He poured some more oil on to his hand, teased himself unintentionally with his own quick preparation, and then curled protectively over his beloved, carefully thrusting into him.

“Oh, oh,” John whimpered, his body undulating, his bound hands clenching reflexively. There was nothing he could do but enjoy Sherlock’s attention to the fullest.

“My lovely John.” The king was enchanted by the sounds John made. He clasped John’s wrists, calming them with soothing strokes around the bond. His hips fell into a steady rhythm.

“Yes, yes, oh.” John’s voice was now huskier than sin, his soft gasp more beautiful than virtue.

Sherlock was close, tempted by John’s kindness to finish inside him, captivated by endless fantasies of the moment they would surrender to each other completely.

Yet every moment was bliss, especially when John was trembling under him, trusting him so much. Without thinking, John was rubbing himself against the bed, finding no release there.

Sherlock slipped his hand under John and stroked him, in time with every thrust.

John screamed his pleasure, emptying himself into Sherlock’s hand, and that undid Sherlock entirely.

It was just as blissful to hold John afterward. There would be plenty of time to clean up later, hopefully with one of those private baths he loved to share with his beloved, though for now Sherlock was satisfied to lie with John, experiencing the happiness he felt every time he was graced with John’s presence.

“I’ll always love you,” Sherlock told him, tenderly reaching around John to free his hands.

John smiled warmly, as a husband would to his spouse, as one who was at last not afraid to rely on another.

What choice did Sherlock have but to kiss this man he had been blessed with? Blessed, he had to admit, in his days in the war, his days in a church, and for every day to come.

End~


End file.
